
N 0 v 


o I 1 


• ♦ 


o N O 


'o ' 7 . 


% " A . A 

O o* ^^rOTTp^ %r 



o v 


^ A* * IrlMAA ° <1? A> 

* * N o 0 <y 



■* A v A - ^ 

a *',.** A 

► O n G ^ ^ 

O <A . 

M* « N < 

w V>* rir •» 

. V 



\ 0 * 7 * 

> £ <£* 

-*■ rv X> ^ 

^ *A-’ f °° ^ 

7 A .* 7 L% <? 



« P"% O u/ K „ Vkr 

* V ^ O VA*A * 

A° V "A A <. *-o,*A G 

' * * ^ r 0 ^ o ^O ^ . . ^ ' v* ^ 0 ^ 





> ?y 0 . 1 

♦ rv -«£- •f* 

A cv <£* •* 

\ v <u ’ " f 7 

* * °* O .0 * * * • * ^ 

* r^> A v T rAW/}A A * 

* ef> 

/ A A 




0 A* = 

♦ v <<> •> * 

. ^ x 2 > •* <i 

A <,-•..* o' 

V 2 > . 1 1 • » *7 g"^ 

< 1 * »W^’ ■%. C° . 

V- cr 0 *? 


A v O *° 

V * * * °^ c\ ,<y ^ 5 * * ' 

■o, ** * - * *f> ,A i j 

*cC 0 A£fA° \ cy ♦ 

V *£»«%! 




■a 5 ^ 

* fw> <*- 

* <17 o < 

A 

♦ ^ V A ‘ °- c\ 







v ° 0 j? 



0 -v a 0 ' ^ ,v *v , 

sp* c^r . • • , -s. \, v * « o _ (7* *\ 

* * o ^ *0 4 <y ^ ' w 5> * a v 

k ®» ;£mk\ \<? : mm ° ; ^ "> 

* <f? vJ ^>, • SSK3 * <y ^ 

,* *' <*. ,&'*■ *o, ^V' ^ < 

**' . • 1 ’ ' * . ’** c 0> .‘J^/°o ^ *»* 

* 



4^ * 

VX 

o V 


^ <4* 40 

A A^ ^ 

> tf, ,s> 

: ^v 




- ^ y 

o V * 

*? -a : 

/> **- 

% * *TTl * % A 0 * *> « ° ° 

7* *9 s^Vl/ * ^ 

^ *> A. <* . VaC * 

4 v 


























OR, 

2 - $ *1 

THE RULING PASSION. —'A 

& *' t<' 


BY 



MRS. A MM S. STEPHENS. 

• »» 

AUTHOR OF “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “ BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE,” “MABEL’S MISTAKE,” 
“BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT,” “ THE OLD COUNTESS,” “RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY,” 
“THE REIGNING BELLE,” “LORD hope’s CHOICE,” “MARRIED IN HASTE, 

^ WIVES AND WIDOWS,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS,” 

“the old homestead,” “a noble woman,” “the curse of gold,” 

“the gold brick,” “doubly false,” “palaces and prisons,” 

“the heiress,” “silent struggles,’^ wife’s secret.” 


Yes, woman's love, when left alone , 

Around an evil heart may cling , 

A, 

ivy trails from stone to stone. 

Creeping o'er many a ruined thing ; 

It gathers in its loving clasp 

The thorns that pierce and flowers that bloom; 
Nor perishes in death's cold grasp , 

But dove-lilce flies beyond the tomb. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


Cb 


jy 

"0 ry 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1876, by 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS. 

Each work is complete in one volume, 12mo. 
BERTHA'S ENGAGEMENT . 

BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE ; or, Bought With A Price . 
LORD HOPE'S CHOICE; or , More Secrets Than One. 

THE OLD COUNTESS . Sequel to Lord Hope's Choice. 
THE HEIRESS; or , The Gipsy's Legacy. 

A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them. 

PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastile. 
WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life. 

RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY; or, Married By Mistake. 
FASHION AND FAMINE. 

THE CURSE OF GOLD; or, The Bound Girl and Wiff serials. 
MABEL' S MISTAKE ; or, The Lost Jewels. 

SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford. 

THE WIFE'S SECRET; or, Gillian . 

THE REJECTED WIFE ; or, The Ruling Passion. 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD ; or, Pet From the Poor House . 
DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike. 

THE REIGNING BELLE. 

MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS. 

MARY DERWENT. 

THE GOLD BRICK. 

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; 4k $1.50 in Paper Cover. 

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one, 
or all of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, 
postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 




TO 

MRS. CORNELIUS YANDERBILT. 

Dear Lady: 

This ^ear, which crowns your married life 

WITH A “ GOLDEN WEDDING,” MANY A TRIBUTE OF LOVE 
WILL BE OFFERED FOR YOUR ACCEPTANCE, BOTH IN RECOG- 
NITION OF YOUR FEMININE MERITS, AND OF THE NAME 
YOU HAVE SO LONG HONORED IN BEARING. BUT NO 
PROOF OF AFFECTION CAN BE RENDERED TO YOU THAT 
WILL REPRESENT MORE SINCERE REGARD OR PROFOUND 
ilESPECT THAN THIS SIMPLE DEDICATION. 

ANN S. STEPHENS. * 
















































































CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

CHAPTER I. 

THE FARM-HOUSE IN COMMOTION — EXPECTED GUESTS — 


PARLOR AND KITCHEN 25 

CHAPTER II. 

GOING HOME — A SHOOTING-MATCH 38 

CHAPTER III. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THANKSGIVING 50 

CHAPTER I Y. 

THE DOUBLE SLEIGH AND THE GOOSE-NEST 61 

CHAPTER Y. 


Arnold’s visit to Leonard’s cabin — the saw-mill 


AT NIGHT T2 

CHAPTER YI. 

OPPOSING WILLS — CONFIDENCES BETWEEN MOTHER AND 

SON 81 

CHAPTER Y 1 1. 

A DECLARATION — PASSIONATE STRUGGLE 96 

CHAPTER Y 1 1 1. 

A WEARY NIGHT — THE FAMILY BREAKFAST — PARENTAL 


ANXIETIES. 


21 


101 


22 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER IX. PAQB 

THE MILL ON THE YANTIC — THE DEPTHS BELOW Ill 

CHAPTER X. 

AFTER THE RESCUE — ANTIPATHIES AND REPULSIONS — 

JOSHUA’S ANGUISH 125 

' % 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR — HIS TWO PATIENTS 138 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE GUEST’S RETURN 149 

CHAPTER XIII. 

OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED — THE HOLY FORCE OF 

PRAYER 15! 

CHAPTER X I Y. 

FATHER AND SON — REBELLION AND REPENTANCE 165 

CHAPTER XY. 

SECRET INTERVIEWS — OUTLAWS’ MEETINGS 172 

CHAPTER X Y I. 

THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER 183 

CHAPTER X Y 1 1. 

OUT IN THE SNOW 189 

CHAPTER XYIII. 

WILD HOPES AND WISHES 200 

CHAPTER XIX. 

IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS 21! 


CONTENTS. 


23 


CHAPTER XX. 

WAITING AND WATCHING 222 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE MORTGAGED FARM 221 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 236 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A TUMULT IN THE HOUSEHOLD — SIGNING THE MORT- 
GAGE 247 

CHAPTER XXIY. 

THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE 253 

CHAPTER XXV. 

NEWS AT LAST. 268 

CHAPTER XXYI. 

THE DESOLATE HOME 281 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

SEARCHING IN THE DEPTHS 292 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WANDERING IN THE NIGHT 295 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE REVELATION 302 

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE UNION OF SORROW 308 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

A FAMILY JOURNEY 317 


24 


CONTENTS. 




CHAPTER XXXII, PAGB 

THE SUMMONS NO CONFESSION 324 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE TYRANT AND HIS VICTIM 334 

CHAPTER XXXIY. 

HAGAR’S LOVE-LETTER 343 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE MINISTER’S FAREWELL 352 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

DOUBLE TIES 351 

/ 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER IN A BLACK HEART 364 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

FOLLOWING AFTER 371 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE SHIPWRECK 380 

CHAPTER XL. 

COMING INTO PORT 388 

CHAPTER X LI. 

THE BRIDAL TOILET 394 

CHAPTER X L 1 1. 

UNDER THE ELMS 405 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE 411 

CHAPTER X L I V. 

CONFESSIONS OF DECEPTION 419 


CHAPTER XL V. 

THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING 


425 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


CHAPTER I 

THE FARM-HOUSE IN COMMOTION — EXPECTED GUESTS — 
PARLOR AND KITCHEN. 

More than ninety years ago, what is now the city of 
Norwich was a thriving village scattered over one of the 
most picturesque hills in the world. Its wildness and its 
oeauty forming a picture one might well go back a century 
or so to look at ; for civilization is most lovely when it im- 
proves nature without enslaving and plundering it. Thus, 
the picturesque log-cabins, and the aspiring frame houses 
on their natural terraces overlooking each other, — some 
peeping out upon unreclaimed rocks, others embowered in 
trees, and all wildly irregular, — were a thousand times 
more attractive than the cultivation and stately wealth of 
the present city, which is even now among the most 
beautiful in our country. 

There was not much inland navigation in those days ; 
but now and then a sloop spread its white sails on the 
Thames below the village, while canoes and rude boats 
were abundant on the Yantic and the Shetucket. Along 
the rich valley which lies on the northwest, farms were 
scattered, and to a considerable extent the wilderness was 

25 


26 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

cut away. The dwellings, so far as the land permitted, 
were gathered in close neighborhood, out of which first a 
scattering village, and now a city has sprung. But the 
cove, which sets up to the mouth of the Yantic, was sur- 
rounded by one unbroken mass of trees. Here and there 
the blue smoke curled up from some newly-built cabin in 
a clearing of the forest. The Yantic River, which plunges 
its wild body of waters into the head of the cove, through 
rocks, oVfer precipices, and down chasms, foaming and 
rioting with eager haste to overtake and outleap the She- 
tucket in a race for the sea, had been forced to yield some 
of its rioting waters for the use of a grist-mill, with its 
slow stones that moaned over their task of a few bushels 
each day. Below this a saw-mill sent its hoarse music 
into the dash of the waters, which leaped by, shouting 
back a mellow defiance, that rang through the old 
forest-trees day and night, as they sing and laugh at the 
present moment. 

Two log-cabins stood back in the woods. Into one the 
miller took his toll at night : and the other was inhabited 
by the man that attended the saw-mill. In those days, 
when two log-cabins stood within sight of each other, 
they were likely to constitute a village and receive a 
name ; but with a grist-mill and saw-mill within hearing, 
of course this was imperative ; so the miller and his neign- 
bor held a town-meeting between themselves and baptized 
the beautiful spot Yantic ville. 

Down among the farm-houses, on the plain, stands to 
this day a large frame house, with a broad, gabled roof 
and heavy chimneys. Two or three old trees droop 
around it, and a substantial fence, half stone, and com- 
pleted with rails, encloses it from the highway. Even 
now the house possesses that air of substantial comfort 


THE FAEM-HOUSE IN COMMOTION. 27 

which is the characteristic of almost all Connecticut dwell- 
ings ; but in the last century it was a very superior build- 
ing indeed, and bespoke the growing prosperity which 
had followed the Norwich settlement from its foundation. 

The ambition of every farmer in those days was to con- 
vert his log- cabin into a stable, and give evidence of thrift 
in a frame house. Sometimes it was years before this 
house received its entire finish, but stood an imposing 
shell, with a network of lath on the walls waiting for 
plaster, while no room but the kitchen was thoroughly 
made comfortable. 

This house was no exception to the general rule. The 
hoarded savings that had erected it gave out when the 
exterior was completed, and for years the good couple 
lived in a large kitchen and bed-room in winter, contenting 
themselves with a broader range of fine airy apartments 
from spring to autumn, when the unfinished state of their 
dwelling was rather an advantage than otherwise. They 
had a growing family, and so put off finishing the house 
till gray hairs came thick on their temples, and their only 
son had gone forth into the world to get his own living. 
There had for three months been great confusion in this 
house. The sound of hammers, the grating of trowels had 
made their harsh music ; then the low, soft sweep of white- 
wash brushes, completed everything. Almost thirty years 
after its foundations were laid, Mr. Arnold’s house had 
received its finishing touches 

And why was all this haste after such patient waiting ? 
Why was the good housewife so busy upon her knees, 
nailing down home-made carpets, or, with both arms up- 
lifted, rolling up paper blinds at the windows ? Why was 
that fair young girl, with meek, brown eyes, so earnest in 
cer attendance on the mother, holding the little plate of 


28 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


carpet-tacks, and helping with her pretty brown hands to 
stretch the stubborn fabric to its place ? 

Why, it was the day but one before Thanksgiving, when 
all those members of the family who had wandered beyond 
that valley were to meet again under the gable -roof and 
have a grand holiday. That only son, of whom the mother 
was so proud, and a guest or two of foreign blood, who, 
fond of adventure, had come to see the grandeur of that 
New World which was soon to claim a place among 
nations, — were expected at the homestead. 

The carpet was down in the south room, and the green 
and red stripes shone out splendidly. Many a long month 
had Mrs. Arnold and her daughter toiled at the great 
wheel, the dye-tub, and the loom, before the admired 
fabric was completed, and they both felt all the sweet con- 
sciousness of creation to its full extent. Tall, wooden 
chairs, with backs bent inward like a bow, and divided 
longitudinally with small, round bars, and seats curved 
like a scroll, stood - primly against the white wall. A 
looking-glass, with a fan-like ornament of carved mahog- 
any on each end of the frame, and surmounted at the top 
with a gilt eagle, gleamed grandly between the two front 
windows. A long, mahogany table, bright as the mirror, 
stood under it, with each claw-foot grasping a ball, and 
long, deep leaves rounded down to the floor. Opposite 
this was a high “ chest o’ drawers,” each drawer bulging 
out, and sinking in like a scroll, with picturesque brass 
handles shining brightly up and down the front. This 
elaborate piece of furniture reached from the floor to the 
ceiling, where it ended in a carved shell, — a wondrous work 
of art, for which, as a piece of worldly vanity, Mrs. Arnold 
wished to be forgiven in her prayers, but still regarded with 
complacency when she observed its effect on the best room. 


29 


EXPECDED^ GUESTS. 

“ There now, I think every thing is in order here,” said 
Mrs. Arnold, dropping the linsey-woolsey apron with which 
she had been polishing the table. 11 They might come to- 
day for .any thing we should care. Dear me! here is a 
spot on the andirons,” and down she went upon her knees, 
rubbing the tall, brass andiron with both hands till drops 
of perspiration hung on her forehead. 

“No, no : that is a bruise, — it will never come out,” said 
Hannah. “ Don’t you remember when brother made it 
throwing his hammer, one day when he hurt his fingers 
cracking walnuts ?” 

Mrs. Arnold stopped, gazed down a moment upon the 
dent with gentle thoughtfulness, and arose from her 
knees. 

“ Yes,” she said, with a sigh ; “ I haven’t forgotten it, 
Hannah. Your father and I have often made it a subject 
of prayer ; and it has set on my conscience more than 
once that we ought to have punished him at that time as 
the Scriptures point out ; but, somehow, whipping never 
seemed the thing for your brother. It always made him 
fierce and sullen ; and I don’t know as any punishment 
besides the rod ~is held proper for a child. One hardly 
knows what way to turn with a boy like that.” 

“ He is so brave, so handsome, mother,” said Hannah 
Arnold. “I don’t wonder you couldn’t find the heart to 
punish him. It seems like whipping a race-horse for 
wanting to run ahead. Won’t he be delighted when he 
sees what we’ve been about here ?” 

Mrs. Arnold looked around with gentle complacency 
upon her pale, sweet face. 

“ It is real nice,” she said. “ The roses on the curtains 
make the room look bright as a flower-garden. Come, 
now, daughter, let’s go and see to the beds. .Bring down 


SO THE REJECTED WIFE. 

the new coverlet, with bine and orange quarters, for the 
out-room, and then we’ll go into the kitchen and see how 
Dan and Hagar are getting along. It’ll be time for your 
father to kill the turkeys and chickens pretty soon. It 
won’t do to have the noise about when the company comes. 
Get the coverlet, Hannah, and then go tell your pa, or 
they will catch us nicely.” 

Hannah ran up-stairs, opened a huge chest, full of 
home-spun linen and substantial bedding, from which she 
took the coverlet woven in orange quarters, and came 
down again. 

“ Mother,” she said, making herself very busy spreading 
the coverlet under the snowy pillows, while her . cheeks 
blushed like moss-roses, “ mother, if it should snow to- 
morrow, — it looks like it, I think, ^ — and the French 
gentleman, who is coming with brother, should fancy a 
sleigh-ride, what do you think of it ?” 

“A sleigh-ride, on Thanksgiving-day !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Arnold, a little horrified. 

The roses flushed deeper in Hannah Arnold’s cheek, and 
she cast a little deprecating look at her mother that 
melted all the prejudices down in that gentle heart in an 
instant. 

“ Well, Hannah, I don’t quite see my way clear about 
the sleigh-ride, if it should snow, — and it seems to me I 
saw flakes in the air a little while ago ; but supposing you 
mention the matter to pa ; if he doesn’t take it too hard, 
I won’t interfere. You can wear my muff and tippet.” 

“ I didn’t mean myself, mother ; but the young French 
gentleman and his sister. You will want me to help about 
the dinner.” 

“ Never mind about the dinner. I’m capable of mana- 
ging that with Hagar. We can chop the stuffing and strain 


EXPECTED GUESTS. 


31 


the pumpkin-sauce over night, you know. There, now, I 
don’t believe there’s a bit of sage or summer savory in the 
house. What shall we do ? These workmen turn every 
thing topsy-turvy !” 

“ Oh, yes there is, mother ! I put up two bundles my- 
self, and hung them on the rafters in the garret, out of thtf 
joiner’s way. Shall I run and get it ?” 

“Well, if you’d just as lief as not.” 

Away went Hannah up into the garret, where any 
quantity of dried herbs hung in clusters and bundles along 
the naked rafters. The whole roof was ornamented with 
strings of fresh apples, nicely quartered, and hung up to 
dry side by side, with loops and rings of pumpkins, stretched 
along poles, and forming massive golden chains across the 
slope of the shingles. On a tow sheet, stretched along 
one end of the garret-floor, which was of loose boards, 
that rattled as she walked, lay a huge pile of butter-nuts. 
Three or four bushels of chestnuts lay in one corner, and 
a quantity of shag-barks was heaped away farther out of 
sight. 

“ There’ll be enough for one Thanksgiving, anyway,” 
thought Hannah, looking around, as she jumped down 
from the old chair on which she had mounted in order to 
reach the herbs. “ Brother needn’t be afraid of our starv- 
ing his friends out, I reckon.” 

She ran down, with a bunch of herbs in each hand, 
flushed and pleased that she had remembered something 
which her mother deemed important. 

By this time, Mrs. Arnold was in the kitchen, settling 
the programme of the coming supper and the next day’s 
feast with Hagar, the household slave, — who was in reality 
rather more mistress of the kitchen than Mrs. Arnold 
nerself. 


32 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 

“ Now, Hagar, don’t you think we can get along with 
out Hannah to-morrow ?” 

Hagar laid down the loaf of bread she was cutting, and 
seemed cloudily doubtful. 

“ Young folks will be young folks,” said the mistress, 
persuasively. 

“ Sure enough ; there’s nature in that ’ar.” 

Here Hannah entered. Hagar’s face brightened at the 
sight of the herbs. She received them with great com- 
placency, observing that she had just been a-worrying the 
soul out of her body about sage, and there it came, just 
like a miracle, with an angel behind it. 

u Hannah has been very thoughtful,” said the mother. 

“ Yes and as you was a-saying, Miss Arnold, young 
folks will be young folks, and sleighing is sleighing ; that’s 
what I told Dan, not ten minutes ago, ‘ Dan,’ says I, 
‘ you jist go inter the barn, and dust out that ’ere two- 
horse sleigh, and the cutter as well ; for if there isn’t two 
foot of snow to-morrow morning, I ain’t a cullered pusson 
to be ’pended on.’ So in course, Dan went. Get along 
without Hannah ! Who thought we couldn’t, I’d like 
to know?” 

“ But what will Mr. Arnold say to all this?” inquired 
the mistress, doubtfully. 

“ He — he told me to ask you,” said Hannah, with a 
demure little smile. 

Mrs. Arnold did not smile in return ; but a look of 
pleasure stole over her face. 

“Well,” she said, “ we will think about it! Thanks- 
givin’ isn’t exactly like Sunday, being rather an institution 
of the government : so perhaps if we read a chapter, and 
have prayers at home, and especially if your father and I 
go to meeting with a sense of edification, a decorous 


PARLOR AND KITCHEN. 


33 


sleigh-ride would not be wrong. Hagar, I think Dan had 
better bring out the great bear-skin robes, and we must 
see about the foot-stoves.” 

“ I’ve ’tended to that,” said Hagar, with a sniff of her 
nose, which reminded you of a squirrel over its nut. 
“ Master carried the robes out hisself, and has been a- 
dusting them agin the stun fence ever since.” 

“ Now, that is all settled,” said Mrs. Arnold, with a 
gentle sigh, for her delicate conscience was not quite at 
rest. “ We’d better fix up a little, Hannah, for there’s no 
knowing when the visitors may come. Hagar, tell Dan 
to build a fire in the out-room ; there is plenty of pine- 
knots under the kitchen-stairs, and every thing handy.” 

“I’ll ’tend to that,” said Hagar, plunging her knife into 
the bread. “ There’s Dan coming now with the sleigh- 
bells in his hand. ’Spoze he wants me to scour ’em up 
for him. There ain’t no end to his wants.” 

Sure enough, just as Mrs. Arnold and her daughter left 
the kitchen, Dan entered, dragging a huge black bear- 
skin robe in one hand, and with a string of bells jingling 
in the other. 

Dan was rather more than six feet high ; while Hagar 
stood just four feet ten in her highest-heeled shoes. Dan 
was large and portly, with a glossy black skin, and a little 
stoop in his shoulders ; Hagar was straight as an arrow, 
and held her head back pertly, like a quail when it walks 
the spring turf. Dan had large feet, large hands, and was 
altogether a little ponderous ; Hagar was quick, wiry, and, 
to use Dan’s complimentary way of expressing it, “sharp 
as a steel trap.” 

Hagar suspected what her fellow-slave wanted, and kept on 
shaving off slices of bread from the loaf with great diligence. 

“Hagar, here is a great, long slit in the bear-skin. 

2 


84 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Master tore it agin the stun wall. S’posing you jes take 
a needle and sew ’em up, ’cause it’s going to be wanted 
now, I tell you.” 

“ I’se got more to ’tend to now than I’se likely to get 
along with,” said Hagar, pushing aside the slices of bread, 
and sweeping the crumbs into one hand with the palm of 
the other. “ Who’s goin’ to help me, I should like to 
know ? There’s the fire to build in the out-room, and 
oven-wood to get in, and pine-knots to split up. Who’s 
goin’ to help me, I say, with all the family goin’ to 
meetin’ and every-which-way ?” 

“I’ll help you, Hagar. Who else has a right to that 
felicitation ?” said Dan, bending grandly over the little 
woman. “ Only get your needle and stitch up the little bit 
of a tear, jest to satisfy master, and see if I don't come up 
to the mark.” 

Hagar dusted the crumbs from her hands, took & wooden 
needle poppet from her bosom, which Dan recognized, 
with a broad smile, as his own gift, selected a coarse 
needle, threaded it, and then explored the depths of her 
pocket for a steel side-thimble. Thus equipped, she drew 
the bear-skin on her lap, and soon put it in order. 

“Now,” said Dan, coaxingly, “if you would jest touch 
up these ’ere bells a trifle with a little brick-dust.” 

“Touch ’em up yourself,” said Hagar, with a toss of her 
little head. “Bells ain’t my work, nohow.” 

“Yes,” said Dan, benignly; “scouring belongs to the 
women folks. How often I’ve stood by to watch them 
’ere hands of yourn a-sliding up and down the knives ! It 
ed be a shame for any other pusson to touch scouring in 
this house. I’ve said so fifty times.” 

“Well, take away the bear-skin and give me the bells 
Mighty good care you’ve taken on ’em.” 


PARLOR AND KITCHEN. 


35 


“ Hagar," said Dan, stooping low, and speaking in a 
bland, confidential voice, “it’s beginning to snow. There's 
half-an-inch on the ground this minute." 

“Well, that’s no secret. I can see for myself." 

“Yes, Hagar; but I was thinking what’s sarse for the 
goose is sarse for — — " 

“Oh, git away, Dan, and don’t talk poetry to me." 

“ Wal, then, Hagar, if the rest on ’em are goin’ a-sleigh- 
ing to-morrow, why shouldn’t we ?’’ 

Hagar gave sure evidence that she was really smart as 
a steel trap. Her eyes began to sparkle, her little figure 
erected itself. 

“ You don’t mean that ’ere, Dan !’’ 

“Yes, I do. There’s the cutter that I painted a beauti- 
ful yaller only last fall, — -jest the dandy for us ; then here’s 
the bear-skin, — you’ll sit under it, Hagar, as snug and warm 
as a biscuit ; and then them bells, — ah I you’ve got to work 
at ’em — won’t they glisten and jingle ? I’ll heat a brick, 
and do it up in flannel for your feet. It needn’t be a large 
brick for them feet, Hagar." 

“ Oh, you git out with your soft soap," cried the de- 
lighted Hagar, giving her sable admirer a gentle push. 

“ Then," continued Dan, magnificently, “ as for the 
driving, perhaps I don’t know how to make old J ack go ! 
“ Gingle I crack ! dash ! here we go ! Snow-balls flying 
from the horse’s huffs, fences running away from us, a 
jumper every- which- while in the road, the cutter going 
slap bang over it. There, Hagar, that will do. They’re 
bright as a new dollar, — every bell on ’em, — much obliged. 
Now, if you would just build that fire in the out-room, 
while I get the cutter in order. If pine-knots are wanted, 
you’ll find an axe at the back-door, with a beautiful 
barked log to lay them agin. If master’ll only let mo 


36 THE REJECTED WIFE 

take the cutter and old Jack, we’ll be sure to have that 
sleigh-ride.” 

With this, Dan gathered up the robe and bells, made 
a motion with his hand, threw an imaginary kiss high over 
Hagar’s head, and disappeared, leaving the little negress 
in a state of hazy doubt whether Dan had been putting all 
his work on her or not. 

“ Now, in a fair battle of intellect or temper, Hagar was 
five times a match for her fellow-slave ; but then Dan 
seldom got into a temper, and was sure to meet her acute- 
ness with glozing flattery and that small cunning which is 
often available where good sense fails. The great, tall 
fellow absolutely believed that he was superior to the 
little steel trap, because he usually prevailed over her. So 
Hagar went down on her knees, and fanned the shovel 
full of live coals which lay in a heap of glowing red under 
the pile of hickory wood she had crossed over the tall, 
brass andirons. She pursed out her India-rubber cheeks 
into a pair of bellows, relieving them with her linsey- 
woolsey apron, which she held tight between her two 
hands. At last, a tongue of flame shot up the fine 
splinters, and licked the delicate moss from the wood, till 
the cloud of smoke turned into sheets of fire, which danced 
cheerily over the tall andirons and brightened all the room. 

As Hagar stood on the hearth regarding her work, 
Mrs. Arnold and Hannah came in, looking quite pictur- 
esque and beautiful. You might travel a week anywhere 
and not find a more charming figure than Hannah ex- 
hibited when she entered the room, with her bottle-green 
skirt, and crimson short- gown trimmed. with black gimp, 
and that fall of narrow ruffles meeting at the throat and 
leaving the shapely neck free in its motions, which were 
graceful as those of a canary-bird when it sings ; calf-skin 


37 


PARLOR AND KITCHEN. 

shoes over black stockings, with long, crimson clocks at the 
ankles, completed a costume that Hagar pronounced quite 
enhancing. 

“ Isn’t she nice, Hagar ?” said Mrs. Arnold, smoothing 
the soft, brown hair that lay rich and bright on each side 
the young girl’s head. “ A nice obedient girl, I mean ?” 
she continued, blushing at the motherly pride that broke 
forth in her words. 

“ Neat as a new pin,” chimed in Hagar, folding her 
arms, and facing round to take a full survey. “ If she 
don’t catch a beau this time, I lose my guess.” 

Hannah blushed, and smiled, and looked slyly at her 
mother, while Hagar stood criticizing them both, with 
her head on one side, and both arms reposing on her little 
chest. 

“ Am I too fine, Hagar ?” said Mrs. Arnold, flushing a 
little at the idea ; " any thing wrong ?” 

“ Wal, now, if the crown of that ’ere cap stood up a little 
higher behind, kinder like a fan, you know, and the ribbon 
that goes round the head was yallar, or blue, or red, in- 
stead of black, it ed be more scrumptious, according to my 
notion. Then, if you’d make the pleats of that ’ere muslin 
handkerchief fall open in front, jest enough to show the 
string of gold beads, with a little more of the neck, — for 
it’s almost as white as our Hannah’s arter all, — I shouldn’t 
find much fault. The roll of that hair jest back from the 
forehead is handsome as a picter ; and then that brown- 
silk dress has got any amount of rustle in it. Well, I 
can’t say as there is much fault to find. Now, jest set 
down here, both on you, while I go and- get the supper 
under way. Dan has got to help me to-night, or I’ll 
know the reason why.” 


CHAPTER II. 


GOING HOME— A SHOOTING-MATCH. 

While these preparations were going on in the old 
farm-house, a little cavalcade, consisting of two gentlemen 
and a lady, followed by a negro servant, was galloping 
through a sweep of woods half a score of miles south ot 
Norwich. 

They were a merry party, with their gay laughter and 
jests, as they spurred quickly on over the frozen road ; for 
the day was cold, and it was evident that a gust of snow 
was fluttering up on the wind from the eastern hills. 

The girl was in the first bloom of womanhood ; a rich, 
dark brunette, with cheeks like the side of a September peach 
that has ripened next the sun, and eager, changing eyes 
that anticipated every smile upon her full lips, and gave 
to her face a piquant beauty quite indescribable. She sat 
her horse admirably, and her lithe form showed to advan- 
tage, in spite of the fur wrappings which the day de- 
manded. With it all, there was something very un-English 
in her appearance, although she spoke the language with 
no perceptible accent. 

The gentleman at her right hand bore sufficient resem- 
blance to her to betray the relationship between them, 
but the brother’s dark features had none of the brilliant 
color or expression which gave such life to her counten- 
ance. Although l^e joined in the conversation, and smiled 
frequently at his sister’s lively sallies, he seemed naturally 


GOING HOME. 


39 


a reserved, silent man ; and there was something in the 
stern, black eyes, and about the firm mouth, which be- 
tokened a temper when once aroused. 

Their companion was a man still young, twenty-seven 
perhaps, almost handsome at times, although the slightly 
Roman features looked somewhat cold and severe in re- 
pose. He was conversing gayly with the girl, and his 
eyes at times, fastened themselves up her face, with an ex- 
pression which sent a riper color to her cheek, though a 
smile would tremble over her lips, in spite of every effort 
to prevent it. 

“ And you think I will like your sister ?” she said, 
laughingly. “ Really, if she is so sweet and charming as 
you say, I doubt if I am acting wisely in bringing Paul 
within her influence. ” 

“ My poor Hannah!” he replied, smiling and shaking 
his head. “ She has no more idea of coquetry than a 
wood-pigeon.” 

“ Oh, don’t be too sure of that, sir,” she interrupted. 
“Woman’s nature is the same the world over, and I 
would wager my pet curl that, if the truth were known, 
you would find that even the most innocent and retired 
little pigeon has her own ideas about subjugating every 
pert young male within her reach.” 

“ Is that the principle upon which Miss de Montreuil 
acts ?” he asked, quickly. 

“Oh, it is unjust to turn my argument against myself,” 
she said, bravely, though the tell-tale color dyed her 
cheeks again. “ It is only your quiet women that I dis- 
trust. I am never afraid of any other where Paul is con- 
cerned. Do you hear, brother ?” 

“.Yes, yes,” he replied, with a slight accent. “ Haven’t 
you learned, Arnold, that it is useless to contend with 


40 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

Laura ? When she finds herself worsted, she leaps clean 
beyond the argument, and brings up in a totally different 
quarter.” 

“ It is beginning to snow !” exclaimed Miss de Montreuil, 
only noticing her brother’s remark by a graceful shrug 
of the shoulders. “ See there, Mr. Arnold, it is coming to- 
wards us quite rapidly.” 

“ We are nearly through the woods now,” he answered, 
“ and there is a little town not far beyond, where we can 
rest if it snows too badly to go on.” 

“ Better push ahead, massa,” chimed in the old negro. 
“ ’Tain’t gwine to be much snow ; but afore mornin’ dar’ll 
be sleighin’, or I misses my guess.” 

“ Peter’s lame arm is an unfailing barometer,” said de 
Montreuil. 

The old negro glanced down at the injured member with 
a puzzled look, as if doubtful what manner of thing that 
might be, saying, hesitatingly, — 

“ ’Spect it are, Massa Paul ; and it am achin’ dole- 
full all this blessed mornin’. Dis barometer is mighty 
hard on a cullered pusson when his wool b’gins to get 
white.” 

“ Here we are out of the woods !” exclaimed Arnold, 
as they reached the brow of the hill, from whence the 
sloping fields betrayed considerable cultivation. “ On a 
bright day, Miss de Montreuil, there is a fine view from 
A his spot.” 

“But this is not exactly a June zephyr,” said her 
brother. 

“ Oh, fie, Paul. You never did really appreciate the 
beautiful. I am sure that it must be very lovely.” 

“On a day like this it makes but little difference,” per- 
sisted de Montreuil. “I can see no more pleasure in 


GOING HOME. 41 

freezing to death in the garden of Eden than in Nova 
Zembla.” 

“ There is the tavern,” said Arnold, pointing to a long 
log building at the foot of the descent. 

“ Is there a little hamlet there ?” 

“ The customary blacksmith’s shop and school-house. 
It would not be Connecticut, you know, without these.” 

“ There is a crowd of men in the field back of the 
school-house,” said de Montreuil. “ Surely, they cannot be 
holding a patriotic meeting in this storm ?” 

“ More likely a shooting-match. Remember, to-morrow 
will be Thanksgiving.” 

“Prime turkeys, Fse warrant,” muttered old Peter, 
elevating himself in his stirrups. “ Oh, golly ! ain’t it 
worth while ?” 

“ I have heard so much of these matches,” said Laura, 
“but have never had the good fortune to witness one.” 

“ That comes of being shut up in a city all your life. 
Miss de Montreuil. See how sadly your education has 
been neglected 1” 

“ I plead guilty, and lament my ignorance. Is there no 
way of remedying it now ?” 

“ Oh, certainly. You can watch all the proceedings 
very comfortably from the tavern window. What do you 
say, de Montreuil ? Shall we beg or hire a rifle and take 
a shot at the old gobbler ?” 

“ Just as you please, mon ami. I should rather like to 
see the sport. ” 

“ I haven’t tried my hand for years. I should be glad to 
know if I have lost my skill.” 

“ After all,” said Laura, “ it seems rather cruel amuse- 
ment.” 

Arnold’s look, expressed amused astonishment ; then a 


42 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


sneer, which she did not see, altered the lines of his mouth 
into an expressign almost revolting, 

‘‘It may be,” he replied; “ but Connecticut youths are 
not trained to think so. Our fair saint will give us absolu- 
tion if we follow the barbarous customs of those about 
us.” 

“ Oh, I confess a desire to see the sport ; but I don’t 
half like it after all.” 

“ Come on, then, where your curiosity can be gratified, 
and I’ll warrant that you will forget your scruples.” 

A vigorous ride down the hill soon brought them to the 
little tavern, where they dismounted, and were ushered, 
with due ceremony, into the best room of which the house 
could boast. 

The crowd in the field were not so busy with their prep- 
arations but that the strangers were duly remarked ; and 
they proved themselves possessed of that laudable spirit 
of curiosity which has so fully developed itself in the de- 
scendants of our worthy Puritan fathers. 

Old Peter went into the field to hire a rifle for his master, 
and a little group immediately gathered about him, plying 
the old servant with so many questions that he stood 
rolling his eyes about in open-mouthed and helpless amaze- 
ment. But Peter’s elocutionary powers were upon too grand 
a scale for him to be long crushed, even by overpowering 
numbers ; and, recovering his speech, he poured forth such 
a voluble account of the glory of his master and all his 
family, past and present, that even Yankee curiosity could 
not well have craved any thing more satisfactory. 

“ And that ’ere’s young Arnold with him ?” asked a long, 
gaunt specimen, when the sable servitor paused for breath. 
“ He used to live down to Norridge, and his folks is there 
yet, I reckon.” 


A SHOOTING-MATCH. 


43 


“ And he and that French fellow want to try a hand at 
shootin’ agin ns, dew they ?’ ’ asked another, bringing his 
rifle heavily upon the ground. “ Wall, tell ’em to come 
on. I’ll let ’em have my old soger cheap, though it ain’t 
used to bein’ hired out to furriners. ” 

“ And what dew they think of imports and taxations ?” 
asked a stout old farmer. “ The time’s come when a man 
likes to know who he’s a-neighborin’ with.” 

“ Oh, git out !” rejoined the first speaker. “ Old Arnold’s 
a riglar true blue, and his son takes after him. I’ll bet 
there hain’t a drop o’ tea wet their whistles since the last 
taxation.” 

“ Arnold’s got a darter, hain’t he ?” asked some one. 

“ Of course he has !” retorted the stout farmer. “ Dew 
you think Jake Dennis would stand up for him so ef there 
wasn’t a female in the case ?” 

“ That’s all yew know about it,” grumbled the dis- 
comfited defender of Mr. Arnold’s patriotism, when the 
laugh at his expense had ceased. “ I guess you’d better 
finish your business, if you want any shootin’ to-day, and 
leave me alone.” 

The hint was a timely one, and the crowd moved away 
from Peter and busied themselves about their concluding 
arrangements. The luckless fowls were taken out of the 
baskets, and flung, securely tied, upon the ground ; and 
one fine old turkey gobbler, with his blood red crest 
quivering irefully, was selected as the first to be put up at 
the “mark.” 

Several men tried their skill, but proved unsuccessful, 
as it was only by hitting the turkey’s head that the prize 
could be gained ; and, as the indignant old gobbler was by 
no means inclined to keep his red crest erect and allow his 
enemies a fair shot, the task was by no means an easy one. 


44 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The discomfited men were greeted with shouts of 
laughter ; for it is a peculiarity of human nature that we 
are more than usually delighted with other people’s fail- 
ures, when about running the same risk ourselves. 

Jake Dennis proved the fortunate competitor, and then 
a variety of trials followed in quick succession. When 
the sport was at its height, Arnold and his friend came 
out of the tavern and crossed the field to the match- 
ground. 

De Montreuil gazed about him with amused curiosity, 
— and to one unaccustomed to things of the sort, the scene 
was not devoid of interest. The animated looks of the 
crowd, the eagerness of the competitors, the ill-concealed 
chagrin of those defeated, and the self-complacency of the 
winners, were excessively amusing. 

“ Dew you want to try your hand ?” asked the old 
farmer, of Arnold, after another fine turkey had been 
set up. 

“If I may, certainly.” 

He took the rifle which the old man handed him, and 
lifting it with a sure aim, fired. The bird’s head fell upon 
the snow several feet from the body. A shout of applause 
followed, for there had been no shot equal to it. 

“ There ain’t no Tory blood in yew, I’ll bet,” said the 
old farmer. “ Yew are the sort to be depended on.” 

Arnold looked at him keenly. 

“ You seem a true patriot,” he said. 

“ I guess they’ll find me one when the time comes.” 

Arnold placed in his hand the turkey he had won, and 
thanked him for the use of his rifle. 

“ Come, de Montreuil, as you won’t try your skill, let 
us leave. Your sister will be tired of waiting. How it 
does snow. We shall be in the midst of a storm I” 


A SHOOTING-MATCH. 


45 


“ Where is Peter ?” asked the Frenchman, when they 
had reached the tavern. “ I declare the fool is going to 
take a shot, and he is as timid with a gun as an old 
woman.” 

The truth was, Peter had bragged and vaunted of his 
powers until he found himself in an unpleasant situation. 
Several slaves had followed their masters, armed with 
blunderbusses, shot-guns, horse-pistols, or any other species 
of fire-arms they could lay their hands upon, in the expec- 
tation- of being allowed a share in the sport, towards the 
close. Now, one-bad tempered negro was an excellent 
marksman, and Peter had irritated him until it was de- 
cided that they must either fight it out, rough-and-tumble, 
or shoot against each other at a mark. 

Affairs had reached a crisis. The belligerent negro 
threatened, and Peter showed the whites of his eyes in 
terror. His vaunting spirit had carried him farther than 
he intended. He looked about for his master, — who was 
too far off to protect him, nor did he show any disposition 
to interfere. He looked among the crowd : the matchers 
had ceased their sport to watch the coming fun. 

“ My massa wants me,” stuttered Peter. 

The tall negro extended a rifle in his left hand, and 
doubled up his ponderous right fist directly under Peter’s 
rolling eyes. 

“ Yer kin take yer chise,” he said, coolly. “ Can’t hev 
no city niggers a-flourishin’ it over ’spectable cullered 
pussons.” 

“ Stand up to him, Jupe !” shouted the laughing crowd. 
“ Don’t let any strange darkies impose upon you.” 

“ I ain’t a strange darkey, — I ain’t, no how ; but was born 
and broughten up in these parts as well as the rest on 
yer, — now, who wants to ’pose upon him ?” expostulated 


46 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


Peter. 11 I’ll meet him like a cullered purson ort ter 
meet anuder gemmen, but just now massa wants me.” 

“ Can’t help it,” said Jupe, determinedly ; “ I wan’t yei 
tew. Now, which is it to be, this blunderbuss, or a 
taste of this ’ere,” and he brought his huge fist into dan- 
gerous proximity with his frightened opponent’s nose, 
which was in all conscience flat enough by nature. 

Peter trembled in his shoes. He glanced at the fist ana 
at the rifle, — either was bad enough ! He grabbed the 
rifle, shut his eyes, pulled the trigger, and fired. They 
had given him an unloaded gun, but it was all the same 
to Peter ! He gave one bound, while the crowd were in 
convulsions of laughter, and started for the tavern, followed 
by a crowd of hooting boys. 

So extreme was the poor fellow’s terror that he 
dashed past his master, and flew into the room where 
Laura de Montreuil stood laughing as heartily as the 
others. 

“ Save me, missus,” he screamed. “I’se killed a man, 
and now dey want ter hang me fur doin’ on’t.” 

With this pathetic appeal, Pete crowded himself under 
the settee, and it required half-an-hour’s persuasion to get 
him out. Not till after he had been repeatedly assured 
tnat the crowd was dispersed and Jupe had gone home 
with his master, could he be induced to creep forth ; and 
a pitiful-looking object he was when he came into the 
light. His portly carcass seemed really flattened, his 
snowy wool was specked with dust, and his neat riding- 
suit woefully soiled. 

In pity to the poor darkey’s terror they started as quickly 
as possible. Peter spoke never a word during a full hour ; 
but when they came in sight of Norwich, his courage 
began to revive, and his vaunting spirit returned. 


A SHOOTING-MATCH. 


47 


He rode close behind his master and whispered, confiden- 
tially. 

“Massa Paul, ’spec that ar Jupe was wuss sheered 
than he made believe ; but I’se glad I didn’t kill him, any- 
how.” 

The mirth with which this confidence was received 
excited Peter’s displeasure. He snorted disdainfully, 
drew his horse back, and rode on in solemn silence, re- 
serving all attempts at convincing himself and others of 
his bravery until a more auspicious period. 

The hour in which one sits full-dressed to wait for 
company, is always a tedious one. Until that time, Mrs. 
Arnold had not really had time to feel of a certainty that 
her son was coming home. While there was any thing 
to embellish or arrange, she could ward off all impatience ; 
but now the very rustle of her dress reminded her every 
instant that he was on the way to her. The heart in that 
gentle bosom beat and fluttered with yearning eagerness 
to behold him. 

Hannah, too, was in a state of considerable excitement 
She moved softly from seat to seat, smoothed her glossy 
hair before the looking-glass, and smiled to see how bright 
and blooming was the face reflected back upon her. 

“ I wonder if he will think me improved !” she thought. 
“ The last time he came home, I remember he complained 
of my stooping. It was because we had just finished the 
the fall-weaving, and one gets a habit of stooping in the 
loom ; but he won’t find fault about that now. Hagar 
says I am as straight as an arrow. I wish my hands 
wasn’t quite so brown and hard : he spoke about that, too ; 
but then hard work will show itself, do what one will.” 

“ Isn’t that the sound of horses coming down the road, 
Hannah ?” cried Mrs. Arnold, half rising. 


48 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ No, mother, I think not. It is father coming round 
the house in his heavy boots.” 

“ No, no ; I am sure, — I am sure he is coming.” 

How that motherly heart began to swell and beat ! 
The glow of tenderness in her eye was beautiful to look 
upon. 

“ He is coming, Hannah. Hark !” 

That moment the front-door opened, and a face, all 
tanned and weather-beaten with out-door work, looked 
in, — a strong earnest face, such as we seldom meet in 
these days. You would not have believed that such 
depth of affection could belong to the face ; for, after all, 
it was but the ruins of great manly beauty that you 
looked upon. 

“ Wife ! daughter ! he is coming ! Our son is in 
sight. ” 

They started forward in a group, and, standing upon 
the door-stone, gazed eagerly along the road, regardless 
of the snow that fell softly around them, scattering their 
heads and garments with floating down. 

A group of persons on horseback, — two men and a 
woman, with another dark figure lagging behind, — were 
coming, full-gallop, through the storm. 

Yes, it was Arnold and his friends. They rode swiftly 
up to the gate. Both the young men dismounted, and Mrs. 
Arnold stood waiting, with heart in mouth, while her 
son deliberately lifted the- young lady from her saddle. 
Then he came forward, looking pleased and happy. It 
was not in human nature to resist the love in that dear 
old face. Her arms were outstretched to receive him ; 
glad tears flooded her meek eyes. She clung to his neck, 
lifted herself to a level with his face, and showered 
motherly kisses upon it, soft and loving as the snow-flakes 


AT HOME. 


49 


that fell around them. “ Oh, Benedict ! Benedict ! my 
son !” 

In uttering these words, full of ineffable tenderness, the 
little woman subsided into a soft rain of tears, and, turn- 
ing her face to the strangers, begged pardon for loving 
her son so much. Then she looked encouragingly at her 
husband, who had shrunk away into the background, and 
stood there pale and troubled, as if afraid to show himself 
side-by-side with his wife. 

The moment he was relieved from his mother’s arms, 
Arnold cast a keen glance at his friends, anxious to see-' 
what effect her impulsiveness had made upon them. 

Laura was smiling, but her eyes were full of tears, and 
a thrill of sympathy passed over her sensitive mouth as 
she met Arnold’s glance. As for the brother, his hand- 
some face was bright with feeling. 

Hannah looked anxiously around on her father, but 
seeing that he hesitated, gave way to her glad impulse, 
and came forward, so bright and pretty that any brother 
might have been proud of her. Then the mist that had 
gathered over Paul’s vision cleared away, a look of admi- # 
ration beamed from his eyes, and when he saw Hannah’s 
red lips upturned for her brother’s kisses, it seemed to him 
that the careless fellow was gathering ripe fruit in the 
snow-storm, leaving him in the cold. 

“ Father ! come, father !” pleaded Hannah, casting a 
yearning glance on the old man, who came forward veiy 
slowly, with a look of doubt and distress that filled the 
heart of his wife with pain. 

Arnold held out his hand. 

“ Well, father, I am home again ; but you do not seem 
well. You — you — 

The old man shook his son’s hand in a hurried, ner- 


50 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


vous way, and looked at his wife as if appealing for 
help. 

“Your father has not been quite well. We are both 
growing old, you know,” said the little woman, in a breath- 
less, eager fashion, quite unusual to her. “ Pray, invite 
your friends in. I am sure they are welcome.” 

For one instant a cloud lowered on Arnold’s brow, but 
an effort swept it off, and with some cheerful words of 
welcome he led the way into the house. 


CHAPTER III. 

PREPARATIONS FOR THANKSGIVING. 

The family-supper was over, and the Arnolds were 
gathered about the wide fire-place in the best room, listen- 
ing to the animated conversation of their son, and forming 
plans of amusement for his guests during the brief term 
of days which was to comprise their visit. 

Hannah sat in her own little nook, beside her father, 
half retiring behind the shelter of his chair, divided be- 
tween joy at her brother’s return, and timidity at the 
sight of strangers. With all a woman’s tact, Laura de 
Montreuil drew her into conversation, and, before she was 
conscious of the kind object, the young girl was chatting 
quite gayly, though she gave a little start and blushed 
every time Paul addressed her ; for his foreign, deferen- 
tial manner, — so different from the honest bluntness of the 


PREPARATIONS FOR THANKSGIVING. 51 

young men who had occasionally visited at her father’s 
house, — seemed quite princely. 

Both Mr. Arnold and his wife were persons of much 
more than ordinary talent ; and, in spite of the retired life 
which they had led for so many years, possessed a range 
of thought and habits of refinement beyond those of the 
neighbors about them. Both de Montreuil and his sister 
were struck with the simple dignity which characterized 
every act and remark. Hannah’s loveliness and quaint 
originality atoned for any lack of worldly knowledge ; and 
altogether young Arnold had no cause to fear that she 
would not do him full justice in the eyes of the visitors 
who had accompanied him home. 

A sleigh-ride was decided upon for the next day, if the 
promise of snow held good ; and altogether, after the first 
timidity wore off, Hannah decided that it was the pleas- 
antest evening she had ever experienced, and went to bed 
with a happy flutter of the heart which left its flush on 
her cheek long after she fell into dreams. 

While the evening passed on so cheerfully in the parlor, 
supper was under way in Hagar’s domain ; and a friendly 
interest in the new-comer there seemed to have pro- 
ceeded even more rapidly than with the guests above 
stairs. 

Peter was in his element, — relating marvellous stories 
of city-life, which quite took little Hagar’s breath away, 
and startled even Dan’s self-sufficiency. 

But to-morrow would be Thanksgiving, and the import- 
ant duties which devolved on Hagar soon aroused her 
from the pleasure of listening to the voluble Peter’s cease- 
less stories. 

She rose briskly and left the supper-table, from which 
it was Dan’s habit never to stir so long as any thing eat- 


52 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

able remained upon it, and began bustling about, removing 
the dishes and putting things to rights generally. 

“ Gettin’ late,” said she, in her brisk way. “ You Dan, 
thar’s all them chickens to kill and pick, to say nothin’ of 
the big gobbler, and that ar’ suckin’ pig what’s waitin’ 
impatient to have its throat cut.” 

Dan looked at her, rose from the table, and seated him- 
self by the fire, — took from his pocket a short clay-pipe, 
a plug of tobacco, and his clasp-knife. This he opened 
with slow deliberation, and began gravely chipping 
up the fragrant weed and rolling it over and over in 
his palm, preparatory to settling himself for a quiet 
smoke. • 

Now, Hagar was one of the best of colored women,* and 
took to Dan with all her soul; *but the smartest house- 
wives are not the most patient, and Dan’s composure irri- 
tated little Hagar wonderfully. 

“ I say, you lazy nigger,” she exclaimed, “ you’d better 
not wait till ole missus comes out, afore you wring the 
necks of them ar’ chickens, — ’member, I tells ye.” 

“ Hagar,” said Dan, with a majestic wave of the hand 
which brandished the clasp-knife imposingly, “ never re- 
trude domestic affairs upon company. That’s a very ’port- 
ant rule that yer ort to follow.” 

“ Miss Hagar has all the little derliceous whims of her 
charming sect,” said Peter, determined not to be outdone 
in grandiloquence. 

“ Oh, laws !” said Hagar, tossing her head with a pleased 
giggle : “ how you city gemmen does flatter !” 

Dan was not pleased with the remark, and betrayed it 
by an excited sniff. 

“ It’s nat’ral talent does it,” said he: “it’s not obliga- 
tory to have lived in a city. Your principal male asso- 


PREPARATIONS FOR THANKSGIVING. 53 


ciations, Hagar, has always been of the most extinguished 
kind.” 

Hagar was tender-hearted. She felt the reproach in 
Dan’s words and manner. 

“ I knows that,” she replied ; “ and I ain’t like Diany 
Perkins, that’s ales cracked arter every new feller that 
comes to meetin’.” 

“ It’s the way of the fair sect,” sighed Peter, with the 
air of a man who had thoroughly studied female nature 
in its different shades, from tawny cream-color to black, — 
“ allers was, from Eve down to the fair Diany.” 

“ Wal, I guess they ain’t no wuss than the men,” said 
Hagar, ready to do battle for her sex as any modern 
champion of female-rights could be. 

“ Man was made fust,” said Dan, sententiously ; “ and 
consuquently he is more’n a notch above de fair sect : 
’member, Hagar, woman was extricated from his rib.”- 

“You needn’t talk nonsense !” cried Hagar. 

“ Don’t you believe what the minister preaches ?” asked 
the horrified Dan. 

“ Don’t want to hear no sich stuff,” pursued Hagar, 
energetically. “Women was made on their own hook as 
much as the men. Don’t tell me !” 

“ These are the objects for gemmen’s adorableness,” 
said Peter, blandly, remarking Dan’s discomfiture. 

“ That’s something like,” cried Hagar. 

“Didn’t I allers say it?” asked Dan. “Isn’t it my 
greatest felicitation to ’tend on you, Hagar ? Hain’t I 
watched the downfall of the snow with an anxious bussom, 
and rigged up the ( goose-net’ a purpose ?” 

^“Oh, dear!” said Hagar, in a flutter. “These men 
fustefy you so. Now, Dan, jest go at them chickens,— 
do i” 


54 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ In course,” replied Dan : “jour commands is mine. 
I make no doubt but Mr. Peter will be most felicitated to 
aid me in de ’quests of beauty.” 

Now, Peter would much have preferred his comfortable 
seat by the fire ; but there was no resisting such an appeal, 
and he expressed his willingness in eloquent phrases. 

“ Set de big kettle over de fire, Hagar,” said Dan, 
“ and have de water oilin’ to pick de chickens. I’ll keep 
de pig till mornin’, hung up ’gin de barn-door by a stick 
of kindling-wood run troo his hind-legs.” 

The two men went out to the barn to sacrifice the luck- 
less fowls ; and Hagar placed the kettle over the fire, half- 
full of water. 

While she was awaiting the return of her fellow-ser- 
vant and his companion, Hannah entered the kitchen, 
accompanied by Laura de Montreuil. Hagar received the 
stranger with her best little dot of a courtesy, and began 
an account of her preparations for the morrow, which was 
cut short by the frightened cacklings of the hens. 

“ They are killing those poor chickens,” said Hannah. 
“I never can bear to hear their screams. Dear me! 
they are right in front of the window.” 

Laura de Montreuil went to the casement and looked 
out. Peter and Dan were standing in front of the barn- 
door, each holding a fluttering chicken. With a dexterous 
jerk of the hand the necks of the luckless flowls were dis- 
located in a breath, and they fell writhing and flapping 
their wings upon the snow, leaving red stains behind. 

Hannah crouched back, and covered her face with both 
hands. 

“You are nervous,” said Miss de Montreuil. 

“ Oh, I never can look at them without a shudder ! 
There they are bringing the poor turkey out to the log. See 


PREPARATIONS FOR THANKSGIVING. 55 

how the light shines over it. I have fed and petted him 
till it seems almost as cruel as beheading a human being.” 

“ It will not hurt him any the more because we are 
watching,” said Laura, looking out of the window again. 

It was a very clear night, the snow had ceased falling 
for a time, and she could watch their operations quite at 
her ease. 

The unfortunate turkey was taken out of his coop, flap- 
ping his wings desperately, and gobbling with fright and 
rage. But Dan quite unconcernedly dragged him to the 
wood-pile, seized his scarlet crest, and held him down, 
while Peter, with a flourish of the axe, took his head 
clean off, and it rolled some distance from the domestic 
guillotine, bathing the snow with blood. 

“What! actually pale!” said Laura, turning toward 
Hannah again. “ You are not very courageous.” 

“ I hate to see any thing killed. It seems as if the 
blow hurt me.” 

“ What would you do if a war sprang up, and you saw 
men killed instead of chickens ?” 

“ I couldn’t. I should die. Could you see a man 
killed ? — some one you had looked upon, — loved perhaps ?” 

“ That would depend,” replied Laura. “ I can imagine 
circumstances when I could look on without a shudder. 
There are wrongs for which only death can atone, and for 
these a man ought to die. Such wrongs, sometimes 
spring only from the man one has loved.” 

Her eyes flashed dangerously. She looked, for tne 
moment, like a woman who would indeed, if necessary, 
take revenge into her hands, and follow it up relentlessly 
to the end. 

Hannah was troubled by her words. Laura saw the effect 
they had produced, and added, with a gay laugh, 


56 


THE REJECTED WIFE, 


“It is not probable that either of us will be called upon 
to help in bloodshed. So pray don’t shiver so.” 

“You could not do it,” said Hannah ; “I know you could 
not.” 

“Well, never mind! I was only jesting. You had 
some order to give your woman, I think.” 

Hannah repeated her mother’s directions to Hagar, and 
they went into the parlor again ; but the sight of the poor 
ohickens had quite destroyed Hannah’s light-heartedness. 

However, the bright, clear morning which succeded was 
enough to cheer the most heavily-burdened spirit, and 
Hannah was down in the kitchen at daylight, flying about 
as briskly as a humming-bird. 

After breakfast was well out of the way, there were prep- 
arations to make for church. He Montreuil and his sister 
were both amused and interested by the extreme import- 
ance attached to the day, and the odd manner in which it 
was celebrated in those primitive times. 

When Hannah came down arrayed in her new" scarlet 
cloak and dark-green dress, it would have been difficult to 
find a prettier picture than she made. Laura nodded ap- 
proval to the admiration which she saw sparkling in her 
brother’s eyes, and greeted the lovely girl with a cordial 
compliment. 

The church, or rather meeting-house, at which the 
principal congregation of Norwich worshiped in those days 
was a vast, wooden structure, almost square, with great 
bam-like doors on three sides, and a pulpit, composed of 
wood enough to build a modern cottage, looming up at 
the end. Over this pulpit a wooden canopy, or sounding- 
board, brooded like some mighty extinguisher; and be- 
neath it, along the broad front, ran a long, bare pew, in which 
the deacons sat, grim and solemn, like a bench of judges 


THE MEETING-HOUSE. 


57 


The house was surrounded, except where the pulpit fore- 
bade it, by a long, lumbering gallery, and the body, cut into 
four sections by broad aisles, was crowded with square 
pews, so that a large portion of the congregation sat with 
its back to the pulpit. 

Into this structure, the people of Norwich crowded on 
that cold thanksgiving-day. It was not altogether an 
ordinance of God, but an extra occasion, got up by the 
governor. So it was not considered indecorous to smile 
blandly on entering the sanctuary ; and a few had ven- 
tured to kiss their wives and children, in a congratulatory 
way before starting, without dread of a fine. 

A cheerful, happy people gathered in the meeting- 
house on that thanksgiving-morning, and among the 
gayest came young Arnold, with his dainty little mother 
leading the way, while he walked proudly side by side 
with the young French lady, whose sumptuous apparel 
and rich brunette beauty filled the waiting crowd with 
admiration. After her brother came Hannah, blushing 
consciously as she walked a little apart from Paul, whose 
quiet indifference to the crowd of curious eyes turned 
upon him filled her with amazement. This family group 
arranged themselves on the crimson cushions of a pew 
near the intersecting aisles, and, after a momentary flutter, 
the congregation settled into devotional quiet. 

At last came the minister, pacing up the aisle with a 
slow, gentle tread, and looking benignly around upon the 
people who were in honest truth his spiritual children. 
He moved gravely up the pulpit-stairs, appeared for a 
moment standing high in air, swallowed, up to the 
shoulders, in the great pulpit, and then disappeared from 
view altogether. He was kneeling in meekness of heart back 
in the pulpit, asking aid of the God whose servant he was, 


58 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


At last a thanksgiving-hymn rose and swelled through 
the building, followed by a long, long prayer and longer 
sermon with its divisions and sub-divisions, all grandly 
solemn and imposing. 

All through the long discourse, de Montreuil’s attention 
was more devoted to the charming girl opposite to him, 
than to the good pastor’s sermon ; but Arnold looked 
neither to the right nor the left, though there was that in 
his face which, to a keen observer, would have betrayed 
thoughts little in unison with the sacredness of the scene 
around. 

Indeed, all the evening before, his manner had been 
singular, and Laura de Montreuil was almost irritated by 
the mixture of admiration and indifference which he ex- 
hibited. It did not seem studied, although if well ac- 
quainted with the nature of the woman with whom he had 
to deal, he could not have adopted a course more likely 
to interest her feelings ; but it appeared rather as if he 
struggled with perplexing thoughts, from which he aroused 
himself with difficulty. 

After the morning-service was over, there came one of 
the grand dinners for which Connecticut has attained a 
world-wide celebrity, — and Mrs. Arnold yielded the palm 
to no housekeeper within her parish. Upon that par- 
ticular day, the presence of her son and strange guests 
naturally stimulated her to higher efforts than usual. The 
most fastidious epicure in the world would have been 
obliged to confess that the repast was the most perfect of 
its kind. 

Hagar declared that no such turkey could be found 
within the neighborhood of Norwich ; and as for the pig, 
“ He was a reg’lar pictur with a lemon stuck in his mouth, 
and his tail curled up behind, and them dear little feet 


THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 


59 


huddled up under him as he lay in his bed of green 
parsley.” 

After dinner Mrs. Arnold went to meeting again, leav- 
ing the young people to their amusements. 

The sleigh-ride had been determined upon, and by half- 
past one the double sleigh dashed up to the door, well 
filled with buffalo robes. The bells, shining from the effect 
of Hagar’s scouring, gingled so merrily that they would 
have softened the heart of the sternest old Puritan that 
came over in the Mayflower. 

“Oh, this is delightful!” exclaimed Laura. “I must 
sit by you, Mr. Arnold, for I am dying to drive. Paul 
can take care of Miss Hannah. Hurry, everybody ! I am 
crazy to be off.” 

That was a sleigh-ride to be remembered ! The day 
was wonderfully bright, the spirits of at least three of the 
party unusually high ; and whatever anxiety disturbed 
Arnold he had completely concealed it, appearing almost 
reckless from contrast with his manner in the morning. 

The bells rung out like a whole flock of summer birds ; 
the snow* flew like showers of seed pearls ; the sun lit 
up the white wreaths that had lodged upon the forest- 
trees, and flashed on brooklets that seemed ensnared by a 
net- work of jewels. On the merry party flew, over hill 
and plain, finding pleasure in every thing about them, and 
ready to decide that it was altogether the pleasantest day 
they had ever spent. 

“You see, Miss Laura,” said Arnold, “that some plea- 
sures are to be found in the country.” 

“ A man is idiotic who lives anywhere else,” cried de 
Montreuil, before his sister could answer. “ I have seen 
more loveliness in our short stay here than in my whole 
life before,” he added, with a glance at Hannah, that made 


60 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


her cheeks glow till they rivaled the cherry trimmings of 
her hood. 

There was no cloud to mar their enjoyment until they 
had nearly reached home. They had taken a long sweep 
of the snow-clad country, and came out near the Yantic 
Falls, which drifted and flashed through its embankments, 
covered with snow-laden trees like a rush of embodied 
sunlight. Miss de Montreuil pointed to a log-house 
which stood across the road from the saw-mill they were 
passing. 

“ That ‘cabin looks very picturesque with the saw-mill 
opposite it,” she said. “ Who lives there ?” 

Arnold’s hand grasped the whip more tightly, and his 
face turned away as he answered, 

“ A Mr. Leonard, — or did, at least.” 

“ Oh, brother, I forgot to tell you,” said Hannah. “Amy 
is not well. She looks so pale and thin, — I noticed her at 
meeting. She never goes out of the house hardly. I do 
believe she is going into the consumption.” 

Arnold made some trifling reply, but again there passed 
over his features the same anxious look, that settled at 
last into a hard, cruel expression that changed his whole 
face. But no one remarked it, save Hannah. She fell into 
thought and looked anxious during the rest of the ride. 


CHAPTER I V. 


THE DOUBLE SLEIGH AND THE GOOSE-NEST. 

Hagar’s own private dreams of amusement are not to 
be forgotten, you may be assured. After the bells had 
been thoroughly scoured, the furs mended, and he had got 
all the work possible out of her, Dan never once referred 
to the promised sleigh-ride. 

However, Hagar was not a woman to be trifled with 
after that fashion. She might bear a great deal, and be 
easily persuaded into doing half her companion’s labor ; 
but that sleigh-ride was a thing the little woman had set 
her heart upon, and have it she would. 

The night before thanksgiving, she reminded Dan of his 
promise, but his attention was occupied with other things ; 
and it was not until she repeated her interrogatories very 
sharply that he heard at all. 

“ I say, you Dan, is that ar’ goose-nest ready ?” 

“In course it am, Hagar. This gemmen neber forgets 
his word.” 

“ So much de 'better,” said Hagar, sniffing. 

“ Mr. Peter, I ’spects we kin show you sleigh-ridin’ 
dat’ll be hard to beat, down in York, if cullered pussons 
do own their horses and sleighs, as ye tells me.” 

The gallant Peter answered that he knew of one lubly 
cullered pusson ob de fair sect as did not need to own a hoss 
and cutter to make her killinger dan all de York gals put 

61 


62 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


togedder. At which Hagar resolved to have that sleigh- 
ride out of Dan, or make him suffer for it. 

The next morning she spoke of it again ; and Peter, 
never having seen a “ goose-nest,” asked for a sight of it. 

Dan winked and screwed up his face in vain. There 
was no getting rid of the request, and, like an able general, 
he put the boldest face possible upon the matter. 

“ Sartin, Mr. Peter; do yerself de trouble to step out 
back of de barn,” he said, with a majestic wave of the 
hand, and flourished himself out of the room, quite ready 
to be surprised at the disappearance of a “ goose-nest,” 
which had not existed for the last three years. 

In a few moments the pair returned to the kitchen, 
where Hagar was awaiting Peter’s opinion of the nest 
She was startled by a volley of exclamations from Dan, 
who entered like a man perfectly furious ; and Peter fol- 
lowed, looking even more stupid than usual. 

“ De laws sake !” screamed Hagar. “ Hev you seen a 
ghost thanksgiving mornin’, Dan ?” 

“It’s gone !” gasped he. “ Quite gone !” 

“What, de ghost? Oh, you didn’t see one! ’Taint 
true ! Oh ! massy’s sake, whar’s my missus ? Ketch hold 
of me, somebody, I’m a gwine to faint! Was it railly a 
ghost, Dan ?” 

“ I say it’s gone !” he exclaimed, with great emphasis. 

“ De ghost ?” 

“No, de ‘goose-nest,’ you fool. Who’s a-talking ’bout 
a ghost ?” 

Hagar came out of her spasm of fright, but she went 
off in a convulsion of rage, the like of which Dan had 
several times witnessed, and never failed to tremble be- 
fore. 

“ Gone!” she repeated, scornfully. “ Gone! Don’t tell me ! 


THE DOUBLE SLEIGH. 


63 


Oh, you lazy wampire, you ontruthful smut-ball I” chang- 
ing rapidly to hoarse tones of indignation. “ It never 
was thar, you awdasheous liar you ! And if it is gone, 
you’d better go arter it ; for I’ll make dis ere kitchen too hot 
to hold ye, see if I don’t !” 

“Why, Hagar, Hagar!” expostulated Dan, retreating 
as fast as she advanced. “Don’t be so corniptious ! ’Taint 
my fault : somebody’s stole it. I seed it thar back of de 
barn on de top of de hen-house wid my own eyes, afore 
I went to bed, and so did Mr. Peter. Didn’t you ?” he 
added, with an appealing look at that personage. 

“ Leastwise I heerd you remark that thar was its rest- 
in’-place,” said Peter. 

“ Thar now, you see, Hagar ! Don’t be obstropolous ! 
A gemmen can’t help what ain’t his fault,” pleaded Dan. 

“Don’t tell me!” shouted the infuriated little woman. 
“I’ll be even wid yer, yes I will! Wait till de dinner 
comes ! How much of dat turkey do yer tink yer’ll get ? 
I know dat turkey’s gwine to get lost ’tween de out-room 
and kitchen, jest like yer goose-nest did. You’ll see, — 
only wait. Dis isn’t gwine to end here, — you jest wait 1” 

Dan was touched upon his tenderest point. A beating 
even with Hagar’s broomstick he might have endured, but 
the thought of losing his dinner was agony. It was cer- 
tainly important that he should mollify Hagar, for he 
knew that she was quite capable of keeping her word. 

“Do wait momentary,” he said ; “ don’t be kitin’ at a 
pusson so, Hagar ! Le’s see. Dar’s de sleigh. Dey’s go- 
in’ out in dat ! But dar’s the cutter ” 

“Wal?” asked Hagar, impatiently; “wal?” 

“But massa lent dat to Miss Peasely dis blessed mornin’.” 

Hagar made a rush at him, but Dan retired behind 
Peter for protection. 


64 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Don’t, now don’t ?” he cried. “ Oh, I kin fix it ! Clar 
up, Hagar, clar up. I’ve got it ! Thar’s an old crockery- 
crate up in the loft, — thar’s plenty of straw. I’ll cut a 
couple of poles for runners, and rig it up in no time.” 

“ Do it now,” said Hagar, “ or yer’ll git no dinner. ’Pend 
on dat.” 

“ In course, Hagar, but yer’d ort to be more ’scrump- 
tious afore strangers. That ar’ goose -nest was ready to 
receive yer lubly form, — it railly was.” 

Hagar showed symptoms of reawakening ire. 

“ Wal, wal, neber mind. I’se gwine to fix another, — . 
thar, thar !” 

Dan retreated, and for once really was compelled to 
work in earnest. He brought down the old crockery-crate, 
in which the hens had built their nests for a good twelve 
months, tore open bundles of rye-straw, and twisted it 
into ropes, which were interwoven, basket-wise, through 
the wood of the crate till the goose-nest began to take 
promising form. But when half through his work, Dan 
grew tired, and sat down on the edge to ruminate, 
dragging the straw rope loosely in his hands “ That is 
no use,” he muttered. “ Why can’t a pusson hab him own 
fun widout workey, workey, workey foreber. How I’se 
jes tuckered oht a-tryin’ ter please that gal as ain’t gwin ter 
be pleased, do what I will. I’se jis a good min’ 4;er 
give it all up, I has, and cut over ter town. Golly, 
wouldn’t she be mad. Ki ! I’se a mind ter do it.” 

“ Dan, I say yer Dan, am dat nest ’bout built.” cried a 
sharp voice from the house. 

Dan started to his work- instantaneously 

“ Dar it am, yer, — golly, dar ain’t no rest for dis nigger 
when she’s ’bout. She takes a fellar right and lef, she 
does. Darn her.” 


THE DOUBLE SLEIGH. 65 

A rustle in the straw, and Hagar’s black head peered 
over. 

“ What am that you’se sayin’ ?” 

“ Oh, nothing Hagar. I’se only thro win’ in a little 
chunk of a prayer, wid de work and kinder askin’ help 
’bout dis ere goose-nest, dat it may be wordy ob its 
lubly burden when de fairest ob her sect gits inter it. Hope 
yer ’scuse me.” 

Hagar waded-knee deep through the straw and came 
out close by Dan. Her black face beamed all over when 
she saw the progress of his work. 

“ Why Dan, Dan, yer blessed nigger, yer. If it ain’t 
enamost done. Here, chile. I’se been fryin’ doughnuts and 
ab broughten yer some hot in my apron ; ’sides dat, I’se 
got a mug ob ginger an cider by de fire, ready for de hot 
tongs de minit yer done. ” 

“ Oh, Hagar !” 

“ Dar, Dan. Work ’way ! work ’way ! I’ll go in an git 
de tongs red hot. Won’t de cider sizzle ?” 

Dan set to work with a will. The “ goose-nest” was 
rigged, but, owing to his haste, by no means with the care 
requisite. The wisps of straw were not firmly tied, and 
the runners were put on in a very unworkmanlike style. 
Altogether, it was a deceptive thing, quite worthy of its 
originator. But, nevertheless, it was ready; and, towards 
the middle of the afternoon, they decided to start. 

Dan brought out a broken string of bells from the loft 
remarking that “thar was music in ’em yet.” Mrs. Ar- 
nold furnished the colored party with quilts, and every 
thing was made as comfortable as circumstances permitted. 

It was decided to drive round for Hagar’s friend, Miss 
Dinah, and afterwards they were to take the road over the 
hill, as that promised the best sleighing 

A. 


66 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Hagar arrayed herself in her best cam-colored petticoat, 
and madder-red short-gown. The dark hood was lined 
with yellow, and her tresses were dexterously divided into 
innumerable little plaits, each tied with an end of red 
ribbon, and floating about her face in the most picturesque 
manner. 

“As lubly as de mommy’ said Dan, when she appeared 
at the kitchen-door, ready to start, and Peter echoed the 
opinion. 

Hagar was only a woman, after all, and these compli- 
ments quite restored her good humor. The two gallants 
assisted her over the side of the crate, and deposited her 
in the snuggest corner of the improvised vehicle. 

According to promise, Dan brought forth a hot brick, 
neatly folded in red flannel, which he placed at her feet, ob- 
serving that “they were lubly as two chestnuts in a bur.” 
Then, tucking the patch-work quilts around her, he waved 
his hand majestically for Peter to climb over the side, and 
followed him, holding whip and rein in one hand, while he 
clung to the nest desperately with the other. Settling 
down in front, he began to shake the reins, chirruping 
at the old horse, till he started off at a respectable trot, 
the broken string of bells sending forth asthmatic jingles, 
and snow-balls flying in all directions. 

They reached the dwelling of Miss Dinah without the 
slightest misadventure. That sable damsel was at leisure 
for the rest of the day, and received their proposal with 
the utmost delight. 

She soon came out, entirely ready ; and then the ques- 
tion arose where she was to sit. The “ goose-nest” was 
not over capacious, and it was quite a puzzle where this 
extra weight was to be deposited. 

Now, Hagar and Dinah were the best possible friends, 


THE “GOOSE-NEST . 1 


67 


—sharp speeches and backbiting counting for nothing just 
there. Indeed, they were very like other women, what- 
ever their color may be, — but Dinah had various little 
flirting ways, of which her friend by no means approved, 
and never failed to check by any means in her power. 

“And whar am I to seat myself?” asked Dinah, with 
vivacious elegance. 

“ Take my place, and Dll set in yer lap,” said Hagar. 

“Oh, my!” giggled Dinah, “why you’d quite quash 
me, Hagar ! What funny little countryfied ways you hev ! 
I’m sure dis city gemman isn’t recustomed to dat way o’ 
doin’ tings.” 

“ Oh, ob course not,” said Peter. “De ladies must set 
in de gemmen’s laps, on sech ’casions as dis. It am de 
berry last fashion.” 

“ Thar !” said Dinah : “ do you hear, Hagar ? Come, 
Mr. Dan, are ye goin’ to let a lady go a-beggin’ for a 
seat ?” 

Her intention was quite too manifest, and Hagar would 
by no means submit to that sort of thing. 

“Ef yer must set on a gemman’s lap,” she said, “take 
Mr. Peter’s, for it’ll be as much as Dan kin do to keep de 
ole hoss straight in de rode. Pete’s rayther oldish, and 
good for nothin’ else butholdin’ critters that can’t get along 
out ob somebody’s lap. Thar !” 

There was no appeal from Hagar’s decision, and Dinah 
resigned herself to it with as much grace as possible. 

“My arms is quite at de service of de fair,” said 
Peter, gallantly extending the aforesaid members, into 
which Dinah sank with a deprecating grace that was quite 
wonderful, casting a glance at Dan from under her droop- 
ing eye-lashes, which that sable Romeo was too wise — arrant 
flirt though he was — to think of returning. Hagar’s sharp 


68 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


eyes were fixed upon him, and there was enough lustre 
left flashing up from her recent passion to make him 
extremely careful how he irritated her again that 
day. 

They drove off quite merrily, for Hagar was, after all, 
the best little woman in the world, and Dinah was quite 
welcome to exert all her powers of fascination upon the 
stranger, so that she did not poach over Hagar’s manor. 
They laughed and they chatted quite as gayly as their 
betters, and Hagar looked over towards Dan almost as 
lovingly as Dinah could have done, had she been free to 
act up to her most tender impulses. 

But that insecure darkey was not easy in his soul, 
although he only betrayed it by an unusual number of 
grins, and it was more effectually concealed than many a 
philosopher could have managed to hide his anxieties, 
The truth was, soon after they started for the last time, 
that “goose-nest” began to wriggle about in the most un- 
exampled manner, and sundry qualms, at least of fear, if 
not of conscience, seized Dan, as he remembered the 
hasty manner in which it had been thrown together. But 
the rest were buoyant with heartfelt gayety ; and, as Dan 
only laughed the louder the more anxious he grew, their 
merriment was something comical to witness. 

They passed the village with a dash, and glided along 
grandly for some distance; but, suddenly, Dan felt the 
“ goose-nest” totter still more unsteadily upon its founda- 
tion. Hagar noticed it, for she was a true daughter of 
Eve, — always inquiring into things which were much better 
left alone. 

“Dan,” she exclaimed, “ isn’t der suthin’ out of kilter 
’bout dis ’ere ‘ goose-nest V ” 

“ The wehicule is as safe as the chariot of Potiphar,” 


THE “GOOSE-NEST.” 69 

returned Dan. “ Don’t be a bit uneasy, Hagar, fur one 
yer can trust in bolds de lines !” 

Hagar was quieted for a few moments ; but as they ap- 
proached the foot of a hill, the old horse took it upon 
himself to start off in a sort of halting gallop, as lazy 
horses- are apt to do at the beginning of a steep ascent, as 
if in desperation at the idea of being forced to mount it. 
The “ goose-nest” twisted about more and more. 'Hagar 
was flung into Dinah’s arms, and Dan precipitated, head- 
foremost, on the top of the whole party, his leg sticking 
up, like the crowning ornament to a pyramid. There was 
a united shriek of consternation ; but the cutter was 
righted, each individual shook him or herself into place, 
and the general composure was in a measure restored. 

Suddenly, the sound of bells attracted their attention : 
the sleigh containing the young Arnolds and their guests 
was coming down the hill on its road home. 

“Dar’s young massa,” exclaimed Dan. “ Now ye’ll 
see how I’ll parse by in fine style.” 

He shouted to the old horse. The willing animal gave 
a bound forward, the runners hit against a stump with a 
force which freed them completely from the crate, and 
away went the horse and poles at full speed up the hill. 
The “ goose-nest” gave a lurch, upsetting Dan in the 
snow-bank, with his legs uppermost, like a dancing Dervish : 
then performed a series of gyrations down the hill, gradu- 
ally depositing its occupants in the most unexpected pos 
tures behind. 

Peter and Dinah clung fast together, and were thrown 
on to the top of a rail-fence, against which the snow had 
banked itself, and there they remained, like two rare 
Ethiopian birds set up for a mark. Hagar clung to the 
“ goose-nest” with both hands, screaming hard at every 


70 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


rebound. One of the sticks of the crate held fast to her 
dress, and away they went, — bump ! clatter ! bump ! 
Now the crate was uppermost, now Hagar. The sticks 
rattled hoarsely against the stumps, and the little woman 
gave out hoarse yells in concert. Just us they reached 
the foot of the hill the crate gave a jump backwards, and 
falling over Hagar, pinned her fast to the earth. Her 
shrieks were alarming. Dinah chimed in with shrill 
screams, though Peter, the sly old fox, surreptitiously 
attempted to stop her mouth, which he accomplished only 
once ; for Dinah fought gloriously, and grasping a handful 
of snow dashed it in his face, rubbing it in till a little 
water-spout meandered down his perfidious bosom. 
Hagar saw this extraordinary spectacle through the 
lattice-work of her prison, and shouted out : 

“ Gib it to fim, Dinah ! pummel him good, — pitch de 
snow down ’im throat. Larn dat city nigger de time 
o’ day ! hi ! ,J 

Dan saw nothing of this. His head was so deep in the 
drift that he was nearing the unreported regions in the 
most unexpected manner, when Arnold stopped his horse, 
and, springing out of his sleigh, extricated him from his 
unfortunate plight. 

Hagar was the next victim to be rescued ; and they lifted 
the crockery- crate from off her and assisted her to rise. 

Poor Hagar ! she was a sorry sight ! Her holiday 
attire was a perfect wreck, — her ribbon-tied wool fluttering 
about in the most disconsolate manner. But all this ruin 
was nothing in comparison to the state of feeling into 
which she had been thrown by the catastrophe. 

She gave three separate shrieks of misery and affright ; 
then contending emotions gave way in a burst of over- 
powering rage. She flew at Dan like a wild cat, but he 


THE “G O O S E-N E S TJ 


71 


fortunately saw her in time. Still panting from his 
struggles in the snow, away he ran towards the horse, and 
Hagar after him, both yelling at every step with an energy 
which was truly appalling. 

Dinah was at last induced to loose her hold of Peter’s 
wool, and the two came to their senses sufficiently to quit 
the fence, and trust themselves to earth again. They 
trotted on murmuringly after the sleigh, and all reached 
the gate in time to see Dan sink breathless on the kitchen 
steps. 

“ I’ll show yer ! I’ll give yer ‘ goose-nest !’ yer — yer 
ole smut-ball 1” was bursting from Hagar’s irate lips ; but 
when she saw the miserable humility of her Adonis, the 
kind heart in her bosom melted, and she passed him with 
a sniff, only muttering : 

“ Yer call yersef a gemman ! Build anudder * goose- 
nest,’ now do.” 

Dan made no answer, but imprisoned himself in the 
cellar-way for a little time ; but finding that cold, he went 
off disconsolately to the barn and hid himself in the hay- 
mow. 

Hannah prepared the tea, but as soon as it was over, and 
the merriment consequent upon the late adventure had 
subsided, young Arnold made a plea of urgent business, 
and left the house. 


CHAPTER Y. 


Arnold’s visit to Leonard’s cabin — the s^w-mill at 

NIGHT — THE HEART-WOUND. 

In the woods upon the hill that rose some distance beyond 
Mr. Arnold’s house, stood two log houses that we have 
before mentioned. One of them was built quite near the 
road cut through the forest ; and in front of it, on the 
bank of the river, the rough saw-mill sent up its grating 
music day after day, chiming in with the roar of the waters 
as thev leaped down over a precipice that formed a natural 
fall above. 

But on thanksgiving, all was silent save the voice of 
the waves sending up their perpetual hymn in the depths 
of the grand old woods. Within the log house there had 
been the usual preparations for the* holiday which no 
moral Connecticut family, however poor, could by any 
possibility neglect. Not that Joshua Leonard was any 
worse off in the world than many of his neighbors, al- 
though he still lived in the log cabin with two rooms which 
he had built when he first married ; but the good man 
counted his savings with the utmost care. He wished 
for no “ new-fangled fixings,” — not he. “ Framed houses 
and boughten furniture” were objects of his supreme con- 
tempt ; and though his wife had for years droned out her 
little complaints at the superior style in wilich many of 
their neighbors lived, she was too inert to combat her 
husband’s close habits successfully. 

72 


ARNOLDS VISIT TO LEONARD’S CABIN. 73 

They had but one child, — a daughter just grown into early 
womanhood, — and as pretty a wild-wood blossom as could 
have been found in the whole neighborhood. 

All that day, Amy Leonard had been in a state of un- 
wonted excitement. While dressing for “ meeting” that 
morning, it seemed as if the blue short-gown would never 
be arranged to her satisfaction ; and she was so long in 
putting on her cloak, that the farmer threatened to drive 
off the ox-sled without her. During the minister’s long 
discourse she was strangely inattentive, sitting with her 
eyes fixed upon the floor, or stealing glances towards the 
pew where Mr. Arnold’s family were seated. 

After they returned home she was even more quiet than 
usual, and several times during the dinner her father chided 
her for her silence. At such moments she would rouse 
herself into cheerfulness ; but the instant she felt herself 
unnoticed, an anxious look crept over her face really 
pitiful to behold. 

When the merry jingle of sleigh-bells attracted her at- 
tention, and she saw that gay, young party go dashing by, 
she stood watching them till they were out of sight ; she 
then crept down by the kitchen fire, and sat for a long 
time looking into it with dreary thoughtfulness. 

As evening came on, she started at every sound, like 
one in expectation of a summons. Every time a tree- # 
bough creaked, she sat breathlessly listening, as if for a 
familiar step. Mr. Leonard was reading the Bible, and 
his wife dozing in her chair, so that, as usual, she was 
unheeded. 

It was eight o’clock, — quite bedtime in those primitive 
days, — and the old gentleman began to make preparations 
for the night. 

Suddenly, there came in truth a knock at the door, which 


74 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


made Amy start to her feet, then crouch down again 
completely overcome with excitement, and sit still with 
her eyes upon the door. 

“ Who on airth is that ?” exclaimed the old lady, startled 
out of her nap. 

“ I guess Amy knows,” replied the farmer. “ Come 
in,” he added, in a louder voice. “ ’Taint worth while to 
stand for ceremony.” 

The door opened in obedience to his invitation, and 
young Arnold entered the room. 

“ Hello !” exclaimed Mr. Leonard. “I thought I saw 
you to meetin. How do you do ? Why, mother, can’t you 
wake up and see who has come ? 

“Why, sakes alive, ef it ain’t Mr. Arnold’s Ben,” said 
the old lady, rousing herself effectually from her nap as 
the young man shook her hand. “Joshua said he was 
sure he saw you to meetin ; but I can’t see an inch from 
my nose. Folks a-staying with you, too, 1 heerd, — do 
tell ! Who be they now ? — city friends o’ yourn, I reckon ! 
Amy, can’t you get a chair for a body when they drop in ?” 

All these remarks were delivered without a pause for 
breath, and while Arnold had turned to greet the young 
girl. Amy was deadly pale when he took her hand. Her 
lips worked tremulously, and her eyes were raised to his 
face with a language more expressive than any words 
could have been. 

She sank back into her chair, and Arnold seated himself 
with his face towards the old couple, purposely or by ac- 
cident, screening her completely from their view. 

“ So you’ve come hum agin,” pursued the old lady, who 
was rarely silent, and whose conversation was always 
delivered in a sleepy manner that admitted of no variation, 
and without the slightest regard for periods. “ ’Spose 


Arnold’s visit to Leonard’s cabin. 75 


you’ve got mighty stuck-up notions there in the city. 
Time Amy went to visit her cousin, — ’twasn’t only her 
second cousin, anyhow, maybe third, for that matter, but 
we’ve allers called her cousin, she ’twas, Sally Wetherby. 
— she came back with so many flamin’ new idees that I 
railly thought the critter’d drive me out of my mind. It’s 
jest the same with young folks everywhere : it’s only by 
living that we larn. And so you’ve gofe a sight of com- 
pany to your house ! Guess your mother don’t thank you 
fur bringin’ her more work, — that’s what she got her house 
fixed up fur, I reckon ! Wal, I tell Joshua, it’s queer how 
other folks can have things as they ort to be, and we keep 
on in the same old way, — not that I’m givin’ to grumble, 
but a body likes to feel as good as other folks. But ’tain’t 
no kind o’ use to talk to Joshua, — never was, and never 
will be ; and there’s Amy as like him as two peas, unless 
’tis that her chin is like my folkses, but I never was no 
hand at seein’ likenesses, though a good many is ” 

“Wal, there, mother,” interrupted her husband, “do 
hold on a minit ! She’s jest like a clock : wind her up 
and she’ll go till she runs down, — the same old two-and- 
six-pence.” 

“ That’s allers the way I’m treated in my own house,” 
said the old lady, not plaintively, not even fretfully, but 
droning away as before. “ I ain’t nobody here, never 
was. Sich a difference in men folks ! There’s Mr. Arnold 
treats his wife like a born queen ; but I’m no ’count’ 
Joshua never held that I was, though a good many folks 
is different ; but I ain’t one to grumble as everybody 
knows ; but I dew say Miss Arnold is the fortunatest 
woman, — and there’s Hannah, fresh as an apple-blossom. 
But just look at our Amy. What ails her I don’t know. 
Goin’ to visit her cousin so much, — she ’twas, Sally Weth- 


76 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


erby, as I told you, though you know’d it afore : many a 
4 time she’s slapped you when you was a little feller, and 
she as high-tempered a critter as you’d find anywhere, — 
and goin’ to see her hain’t done Amy no good. She’s a 
notion of readin’, too ; and that I never will believe in, 
nyhow !” 

“ Come, mother,” said Mr. Leonard, “you and I’ll go 
to-bed. I guess the young folks don’t need us. There’s 
more pine-knots in the corner, Arnold. Come along, Je- 
mimy.” 

He lit a “ dip” candle, fairly forced the old lady into the 
other apartment, which was used as their bed-room, and 
the youthful couple were left alone. 

The girl was trembling all over from the agitation 
which she had struggled so hard to repress during the 
past half-hour. 

“Amy,” whispered Arnold, in a low voice, that went 
to the inmost depths of her heart, “ Amy !” 

He bent forward and drew her towards his chair. She 
half-knelt before him, and hid her face upon his shoulder 
with a flow of tears that could no longer be restrained. 

“Crying!” he said, “how is this, Amy? Look up — 
there, there, what a nervous little thing !”' He lifted her 
face and pressed his lips upon her forehead. “ Don’t cry 
any more, or I shall think that you are not glad to see 
me. ” 

“ The day has been so long — I thought you did not 
mean to come,” she murmured, wiping the tears from her 
eyes, and forcing back the sob which rose to her lips. 
“ I have waited three whole months for this meeting 
and to-day has seemed longer than the whole time 
before.” 

“ I could not come until this evening ; you must remem- 


ARNOLD AND AMY. 


9 

77 

bet It is a year since I bad seen my mother, and she will 
sea. ie \ y let me out of her sight now.” 

“ She did let you go to-day r it seems !” exclaimed Amy, 
excitedly. “ Oh, I saw you driving by without even a 
look towards the house ; at church it was the same thing 
not a glance for me.” 

“ Hush ! hush !” he said. “ Your father will hear you.” 

“ Sometimes I don’t care,” she returned, with an energy 
foreign to her character. “ I would like to die ! There 
have been days when it seemed that I should go mad if 
I could not get out of these dreary woods and lind you 
again.” 

“ Come out and walk,” whispered Arnold • 1 They are 

asleep in the other room, and we shall disturb them. ” 

Amy threw a heavy cloak drearily about her, and 
followed Arnold cautious footsteps out-of-doors. She went 
passively, as she would have obeyed him had he bidden 
her go forth from that forest-home never to return. 

It was a glorious night, — the moon at its full, and not 
a cloud in the sky. There was no wind, but the air was 
very cold, and the low shivering of the pine-trees above 
them sounded like distant voices talking of pain. The 
rush of the river was strangely distinct, and to Amy’s 
fancy it sounded like a weird warning that she could not 
understand, but which made her tremble with a vague 
sense of approaching ill. 

He drew her arm into his, and led her down the ban 
to the old saw-mill. 

“We are sheltered from the wind here,” he said, as 
they sat down upon the carriage on which the logs were 
placed. 

“ How strangely your voice sounds to-night, Arnold 1” 

“You are fanciful and nervous, Amy. I believe you 


78 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


read too many story-books. I shall not send you any 
more.” 

“ Who are those strangers at your house ?” she asked, 
abruptly. 

“ Old friends of mine. I brought them here because 
he gentleman wishes to buy land, and my father has 
some to dispose of.” 

“ And the lady ?” 

“ She naturally accompanied her brother.” 

“ Oh yes, I understand ! I know very well who it is, 
— Miss Laura de Montreuil. I saw her driving by one 
day when I was in New Haven.” 

“ She lives in New York.” 

“ That makes no difference. She was pointed out to me 
as a great heiress.” 

“ Are ■ you sure of that ?” Arnold asked, carelessly, but 
it was in truth a question which, greatly interested him. 

“Very sure! Oh, I see it all. She has money, and 
you, with all the world, will be at her feet ! Oh, Arnold, 
Arnold,” she added, with sudden passion, “is this keep- 
ing your word ? Is this what you promised when you 
induced me to deceive my parents, — to take upon myself 
a load of deception that wears my life away ?” 

“ Would you be freed from it ?” he asked, almost 
brutally. 

“ Oh, any thing, to feel the light-hearted girl I was once.” 

“ There is no reason why you should not.” 

“You mock me,” she said, with sad reproach. “Per- 
haps I deserve it ! But oh, Arnold, you do not know 
what I have suffered since we parted ! The secret 
wedding, — that return to my old home to feel myself so 
changed, — unable to speak freely with any ! It has been 
dreadful 1” 


THE HE ART- WOUND. 


79 


“ Why, Amy, are you resolved to keep up that silly farce, 
when we are alone too? Come, come: a jest is a jest.” 

“ Jest ! — a jest ! What do you mean ?” 

“ You have no real claim on me : you know what T 
mean well enough, child; and know, too, that I will admit 
of none.” 

She rose to her feet, and looked full in his face with a 
wild passion that was like insanity. 

“ God help me ! I have been mad indeed !” She pressed 
her hands to her forehead like one trying to remember. 
“ You,” she cried, dashing aside her hands and confront- 
ing him firmly, “you have some end in view. We were 
married. When I went to New Haven you used to meet 
me everywhere : on my way to the school where my cousin 
sent me, — in the evening at her house. You told me that 
you loved me, and you did — oh, you did ! You begged 
me to consent to that secret wedding that you might be 
sure I indeed belonged to you.” 

“ It was no marriage, Amy.” 

“It was ! It was ! I am your wife.” 

There was an agony of entreaty in her voice that was 
heart-rending ; but Arnold’s resolution was taken, and an 
effigy of stone could not have been colder or more ira* 
movable. 

“I tell you no, Amy. You have no claim on me, — none 
in the world.” 

She neither wept nor moaned. She stood before him, 
gazing in his face, without the power to turn away her 
eyes. His audacious composure fascinated her. 

“And you do not love me?” she said, in a hollow voice. 
“You came here to tell me that?” 

“I do love you, Amy: indeed I do !” 

“ But you had some reason for coming with that false** 


80 THE R Sir BOTED WIFE. 

hood on your lips ! Tell me at once that you do not love 
me. It is better. I shall struggle till you do that.” 

“ Ijj do, Amy ! Circumstances may part us ; but, believe 
me, you are very dear to me still, — very dear.” 

“Are you going away forever?” she gasped; “go- 
ing ” Her voice broke, she seemed choking. 

“ I cannot tell. Ho man can tell what is to come.” 

“ Are you going to leave me ? Will you never claim 
me of my father ?” 

“You are not the person to question me so.” 

“Iam! In the sight of heaven, I am ! Are you going 
away ? Answer me. ” 

“ Yery soon. And it may be years before I return.” 

She uttered no word, but her strength suddenly gave 
way, and she slid to his feet and fell motionless upon the 
icy boards. 

He raised her in his arms and bore her toward the house. 

“It is better so,” he muttered. “To-morrow I shall be 
away. Better so.” 

He made no effort to revive her, but carried her to the. 
house, entered it gently, and placed her upon a chair 
near the fire. He stood a moment, looking down upon 
that sweet, pale face. It was quiet now. The large eyes, 
bright with pain a moment before, were closed under 
their cold lids, and she looked painfully death-like. 

He stooped down as if to kiss her; but the attempt 
seemed sacrilegious even to him ; and, leaving only a gust 
of sinful breath on her forehead, he turned away, — heavy 
hearted it may be, but resolute still. 

How long Amy Leonard remained insensible she never 
knew. When consciousness came back she was alone in 
that darkened room. The fire had burned down, and the 
quivering embers only sent up transient gleams. The 


THE HEART-WOUND 


81 


sighing of the pine-trees and the rush of the waters were 
the only noises that reached her ear. And those were 
sounds of dreary desolation. 

“Arnold !” she moaned. “Arnold !” 

Only the low night-wind made reply ; and Amy roused 
herself to the consciousness that he had left her, — and for- 
ever. She started from her seat, as if she would have 
gone in search of him ; but her very limbs seemed para- 
lyzed by the numbing weight upon her heart, and she fell 
back in the chair, utterly powerless. 

She did not move again for hours. The moon swept 
up the sky, till its full light played in at the little case- 
ment and illuminated the room. 

Still there she sat, gazing fixedly at the dying embers, 
shivering at intervals, but making no effort to rise. The 
wretched young creature scarcely comprehended what had 
befallen her ; but, stunned and shaken in every nerve, it 
seemed as if she would never, never awake from that dull 
ache of the heart. 



CHAPTER YI. 


OPPOSING WILLS — CONF • DENCES BETWEEN MOTHER AND SON. 

On the day after thanksgiving, Arnold and- his friends 
were to have returned to New Haven. Short as his visit 
had been, the young man was more than anxious to leave 
his home again ; but in this matter he had a will) strong 
as his own, and a caprice far more uncertain, to contend 


82 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


against. Laura de Montreuil would not quite confess 
herself overtaxed by the journey she had taken only three 
days before, but she found the old homestead so pleasant, 
the parlor so warm and cozy, when contrasted with the 
drifting snow and keen frost out-of-doors, that Mrs. Arnold’s 

| . sweet persuasion to remain a little longer was met with 

■ 

| acceptance. Arnold’s protestations that business compelled 
him to go at once, urged with a dictatorial, half-insolent, 
air, had no effect upon Laura, though they made the good 
housewife shrink away, with a troubled expression of the 
eye painful to look upon. 

Mademoiselle de Montreuil laughed when she saw this. 
“ And so they are all afraid of you, my hero ! I see how 
it is. You won’t even be persuaded. Now there; go kiss 
your blessed little mamma, and tell her you won’t go 
away for the next thousand years, at least.” 

She pointed her slender finger towards him an instant, 
then dropped her hand and took the feather fan from her 
lap, shading her laughing face as she saw his haughty 
* frown lower over her. 

“What! you are seriously determined to be rude to 
that angel, and inhospitable to us,” she said, with a face 
dark as his own. “ I beg your pardon. It is not my plea- 
sure, nor that of Paul, I dare say, to leave this neigh- 
borhood for a day or two yet. There is some fine scenery 
about the Falls, and a picturesque cabin or two, perched 
on the banks, that I have a fancy to sketch ; but we shall 
not force ourselves on your hospitality. There must be a 
public house somewhere in the hill-side town yonder.” 

Arnold’s face had cleared off. An impatient curve of the 
lip remained, but that was directly softened into a smile. 
He did not heed the anxious face of his mother, but stole 
close to Laura’s chair, and, bending over her with a grace 


OPPOSING WILLS. 


83 


that was more than half command, soften it as he would, 
whispered a few words that sent the blood burning to her 
face. 

“It was because I thought you were tired of my society,” 
he said, fixing his glance upon her with a power that daz- 
zled her eyes more completely than the fire had done. 

“ But I like your mother, and that little saintly sister, 
enough to. put up with the rest,” she said, with an attempt 
at audacious cheerfulness. 

“And it is not for my sake ?” he whispered. 

“Hush! your mother.” 

“Ohj I had forgotten. Well, mother, it is determined, 
business or no business, we are to remain a day or two 
longer. Will that please you ?” 

Mrs. Arnold brightened pleasantly, but this agitation 
had left her rather pale ; and as Arnold lifted his eyes 
to her face, he saw something there that made him 
thoughtful. 

His look of eager solicitude brought the tears into her 
eyes, while the gentlest of all smiles hovered on his lips. 

“ Are you pleased, mother ?” 

Mademoiselle de Montreuil had left the room, or the 
good lady would never have given way to her tears : that 
kind of sensibility was not much in fashion with the New 
England mothers of her generation. They prayed more 
than they wept, and hard work left them little time for 
any thing more than an exhibition of honest family affec- 
tion, now and then. 

“ What is it troubles you, mother ?” said Arnold, press- 
ing that pale face to his bosom, with the purest gleams of 
tenderness that existed in his nature. “Now that the 
excitement is off, I see that you look worn and feeble Is 
any thing really the matter ?” 


84 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The old lady sighed heavily ; but his tenderness com- 
forted her, and drawing herself away from his bosom, she 
wiped her eyes, trying hard to smile. 

“Yes, I have something. Come with me a little. I 
want to talk to you. This idea of going away so soon 
frightens me. I didn’t expect it, Benedict, and was put- 
ting every thing off to the last, like a poor coward that I 
am. ” 

Again Arnold’s face grew black. Half the time it past 
under the thunder-cloud of some passion. From his boy- 
hood it had always been so ; but the contrast of cheerful 
humor and persuasive gentleness had a wonderful fascina- 
tion when they arose. 

He followed his mother up-stairs into her bed-chamber, 
a square room in the southwest corner of the house, where 
the turbulent heart in his bosom had first begun to beat. 

The room was close. Though it was now somewhat 
late in the morning, the green paper blinds were all 
rolled down, and, notwithstanding the clear, cold air 
without, a heavy, dead atmosphere filled the gloomy 
twilight, — an atmosphere that Arnold felt at once, and the 
color in his face deepened into fierce flushes. 

-“Is this my father?” he exclaimed, striding up to the 
bed, and forcing the counterpane down from where it 
was huddled over the old man’s face. 

Mrs. Arnold laid her hand on his arm, growing pale, 
and holding her breath. No fault could make her forget 
respect for the husband of her youth. 

“ Is this my father ?” Arnold exclaimed again, shaking 
off her hold, and grasping the exposed shoulder with a 
violence which made the old man lurch heavily in his bed, 
and mutter to be left alone. 

“ It is my husband, Benedict, and your father. Never 


OPPOSING WILLS. 85 

forget that. Take your hand away ; it was not for this 1 
brought you here !” 

Arnold slowly withdrew his hand, but looked fiercely 
back at the bed. As the gentle mother strove to draw 
him away, his fingers worked and clenched themselves, as 
if he would gladly have turned and strangled that old 
man in his inebriate slumber. The mother’s face was full 
of sorrow ; his, the only son, was black with rage. 

“And how long has this been?” he said, when the door 
was closed behind them. 

“Ever since you left us. I think he missed you, Bene- 
dict, and so went oftener to town. It was very lonesome 
here evenings, with nobody but Dan to order, and us to 
talk with, you know.” 

“Do you mean to find fault with me for going, mother? 
as if a son must stay at home forever, to keep his father 
from becoming a drunkard !” 

“Hush! Benedict, nobody ever called liim that in my 
hearing before.” 

“But I dare say he is called that all over town,” an- 
swered the son, savagely; “and these French people, this 
splendid young lady will soon find it out.” 

“Ho, no, I will persuade him. You will help me, — he 
is so amiable and kind at all times. Last night, he saw a 
light in the out-room, and thinking your friends were up, 
wandered about till he was almost frozen. I was sitting 
up, you know, and at last saw him against the window, 
with his breath frozen white in his beard, and his hat off* : 
he had lost it by the gate.” 

“And she might have seen this !” 

“Ho, no; he would have frozen in the snow rather than 
make you blush, Benedict. He had memory enough for 
that. So don’t think too hard of him.” 


86 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“But what gave rise to this ? He was as temperate a 
man as any in Norwich when I went to New Haven. ” 

“I don’t know. It has always been a mystery to me; 
but, since his store was burned down, and the insurance 
money paid, he’s never been the same man, — always rest- 
less, always wanting to be in motion.” 

**' Since his store was burned down !” faltered Arnold, 
and a dusky glow filled his eyes, and flushed his face all 
around them; “and the insurance money paid. Surely he 
does not grudge me that little start in life.” 

“ No, no. Of course not !” cried the mother, eager to 
clear her husband. “I did not know that you had the 
money. He never speaks of the fire ; but always goes away, 
and comes home as you see, if any one else mentions it. 
Sometimes people twit him about it, I’m afraid.” 

“ Twit him about it ! What is that you say, madam ?” 

‘ Madam ! my son ; madam to your mother !” 

“Well, I beg your pardon ; but you spoke of some one 
twitting my father. Who ?” the voice in which Arnold 
asked this was terrible. 

“ Yes, he said it once,” answered the little woman, be- 
ginning to. tremble, she scarce knew why; “but he wasn’t 
quite himself, you know ; and — and — I don’t like to .ask 
questions at such times. When you came home, I thought 
perhaps you might be able to help me understand it !” 

“Me ? me ?” 

“ It was one of my delusions, I dare say,” answered 
Mrs. Arnold, shrinking from her son’s glance. 

“ One of your delusions ! Why, you didn’t have these 
fancies formerly, mother. I thought if there was a wo- 
man on earth every way above them, you were that wo- 
man. ” 

“ Did you, Benedict ? Was I really so smart as that ? 


OPPOSING- WILLS. 


87 


Well, well, as one gets old, and sees the sun of life going 
down, and the shadows coming on, it makes a difference ; 
and then I’m used to sitting up late at nights now, and 
that weakens one so : but I am altered now, Benedict ?” 

There was something so earnest and touching in that 
sweet voice, that Arnold felt the tears stealing to his eyes. 
The strange moisture fairly startled him. He dropped 
the hand which he had half lifted to her head, and turned 
away, biting his lips angrily. 

“ Come, come, it isn’t forme to torment you in this way, 
Benedict,” said the kind mother. “ Step this way. I 
want to show you something.” 

Arnold followed her into the next room, where a large 
oaken chest, clamped with brass, stood between the front 
windows. She opened the chest, and revealed a store of 
fine home-made linen, white as snow, delicately fine 
pillow-cases, fringed at the edge, and sheets, with broad 
hems, daintily stitched. “ Hannah had her setting-out 
ready ever so long ago,” said the good woman, looking 
over her shoulders as she knelt before the chest. “ I began 
spinning and weaving for her when she was a baby ; but 
this was done since you left us. Hagar wanted to help, 
but I was selfish and would do it all myself. So don’t 
marry any one that’ll be above using homespun, or what 
would all this be good for ?” 

Dear soul, how transparent her little artifice was. She 
had no courage to. say how much too fine she thought the 
elegant French woman down-stairs, and so made this ex- 
cuse to bring on the subject, believing herself the most 
crafty and wicked little woman in the world to attempt 
it, quite a demoralizing example for her own son. 

Arnold was rather softened by the sight of the linen. 
It reminded him, painfully, of those quiet hours when he 


88 - 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


had hung on his mother’s chair, while her two hands were 
so busy at the distaff, and her little foot danced on the 
pedal of the flax-wheel, which was now unbanded in the 
garret above. He remembered so well how she would dip 
her fingers into the cocoanut shell hanging over the flyers, 
sprinkle tne drops over her shoulders, and then kiss them 
from his face, when she saw him grow angry, as he was 
sure to do. 

How pretty she looked in those days. Hoses bloomed 
on her cheeks then, and no strawberry was ever of a 
sweeter crimson than her mouth. But there was a great 
change. He had not minded it so much at first; but now, 
with the full light shining over her from an uncurtained 
window, a host of fine wrinkles threaded that pure fore- 
head, and the pallor of her face was unnatural. Surely 
his mother could not be well. 

The worst man that I ever saw — one who confessed to 
having murdered sixty persons in a piratical career, with- 
out a single expression of repentance — began to speak to 
me of his mother, and wept like a little child. All those 
atrocious murders had failed to wash the holy image 
of a mother from his soul. Then, do not think it un- 
natural that Benedict Arnold, in his youth, should have 
loved the little woman kneeling at his feet, with a force 
of affection that a better man might not have possessed. 
With him all affections and all sentiments were passions ; 
but the most sacred that ever dwelt in that ambitious 
eart, was his love, which made his haughty lip tremble, 
and his eyes dim, while she exhibited her treasures. 

“ Oh, Benedict, don’t, or you’ll make me cry too !” she 
said, quite heart-smitten by his look. “ Don’t feel hurt at 
what I said. Of course you can marry anybody on earth 


OPPOSING WILLS. 


89 


that suits you, — why not ? The brighter and handsomer 
all the better, of course : and if she’s rich >” 

“ She must be rich,” said Arnold, sharply. “ I want no 
wife to drag me down.” 

“ Oh, my son, what need ” 

“ The more need, mother, from what I have seen this 
morning. Tell me, is my father in debt ?” 

“ I — I don’t know. He never tells me any thing now ” 

“Well, that I can learn from him, as we stay over 
awhile. I suppose he will manage to get sober before we 
go.” 

Mrs. Arnold shrunk, and the color came to her face. 
He saw it, and relented a little. 

“ But we will not talk of this any more. He must not 
be careless of your comforts, that is all. So now, 
mother, close the chest, and let us sit down on it a mo- 
ment, while you tell me how this lady strikes you all at 
home. Something a little out of the usual run, I fancy ?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Arnold, doubtfully ; “very, — that is, 
we haven’t any girl in Norwich in the least like her. 

“ Handsome, though. Isn’t she, mother ?” 

“ Oh, yes. A great deal handsomer than, — yes, I was 
going to say, than Amy Leonard, — not near so nice, 
though ; but then fine ladies don’t care about being nice, 
I dare say. This one is handsome as a bird, especially 
with those white ostrich-plumes in her bonnet all flying 
away with her curls. How the people did stare when 
you drove up to the meeting-house, thanksgiving-day, just 
at prayer time. It was as much as the minister could do 
to keep his eyes shut. I was sorry about the disturbance ; 
but then, for the life of me, I couldn’t help looking out.” 

“ Then it made a little commotion among the natives ? 
I thought so.” 


90 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Indeed, how could that be helped ? The Norwich 
people haven’t forgotten that your father was one of the 
richest merchants among ’em before that fire.” 

Arnold was looking at his mother, but his eyes fell as 
she mentioned the fire. 

“ Oh, I was wrong to name it again ; but what could 
any one do ? If you had stayed a moment longer in the 
store, who could have saved your life ? and what was 
building or goods compared to that ? I never thought of 
blaming you.” 

“ And who has ? I ask again,” said Arnold, fiercely, 
“ I was only a boy then. Did they expect me to put out 
a raging fire single-handed ?” 

“ Indeed how could they ? But we were speaking of 
the young lady down-stairs. Tell me more about her ? 
Is she really from over the sea ?” 

“ Originally, yes, mother ; but for a year or two she 
has lived in Canada, where her brother inherited a great 
business from his father. Lately, they have been in New 
York, and traveling about. This young lady was educa- 
ted in Paris, I am quite sure, for she has seen the court, 
and there is a title in the family.” 

\ Mrs. Arnold held her breath. 

“ Her grandfather had some place under the king ; and 
she was educated in a convent.” 

“ A convent ! a Catholic !” cried Mrs. Arnold, clasping 
her hands in intense dismay. “ Oh, my son !” 

“ Does that frighten you, mother ?” said Arnold laugh- 
ing carelessly. “ Never mind, if she chooses to fall in 
love with me, I’ll soon make her forget it. If I tell 
her to be sprinkled in the meeting-house, or dipped in the 
Falls at high-flood, she’ll do it mother, or I’ll know why.” 

“ What, that high-spirited, handsome girl ?” smiled the 


OPPOSING WILLS. 


91 


old lady, flushed with the idea he so insolently brought 
forward. “ How can you talk so, Benedict ? One would 
think you’d been in Paris too. But don’t talk any more 
nonsense about our visitor. She’s as bright and beautiful as 
a bird : but what is that to old-fashioned people like us ? 
You haven’t asked a word about Amy Leonard yet, — and 
that puts me in mind to send Dan, with the cutter, after 
her this evening. She’ll expect it, poor girl ; she’s not 
been very well this fall : stays away from meeting, and is 
getting a little unsocial, I’m afraid. I hope your coming 
will cheer her up, — such friends as you were once, — only 
these things never last with children. 

“No, mother, they seldom last,” said Arnold, rising 
from the chest. “ So perhaps it’ll be as well not to send 
for Amy. I’ve been to visit the family, and they won’t 
expect any thing more.” 

Mrs. Arnold sighed. With every thread of the linen 
folded beneath her she had woven a motherly thought of 
Benedict and Amy Leonard ; and now this French girl, 
with the feathers, must come dashing out from a foreign 
convent, and tear all her delicate cobwebs of fancy into 
shreds. The dear little woman wished to be hospitable, 
and there was something very grand and imposing about 
the idea of a daughter-in-law who had been educated in 
Paris, — who had seen the king,— possessed a title some- 
where in the family, and no doubt owned heaps on heaps 
of property. But still the lovely face of Amy Leonard 
came closest to her heart, and she felt inexpressibly sad- 
dened by her son’s triumphant manner. 

Mrs. Arnold arose from the linen chest, and sighed, as 
she locked up her treasures. 

“ Then you think I’d better not send for Amy ?” she 


92 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


said, with a gleam of fresh courage. “ She’s lonesome up 
there, I know.” 

“ She’d be more lonesome with Mademoiselle de Mon- 
treuil, — a wren and bird of Paradise together, dear 
mother. When I come to Norwich, it is to see you and 
the rest of ’em. Don’t let me be tormented with girls.” 

With a careless wave of the hand, which Mrs. Arnold 
longed to construe into a permission to send for her favor- 
ite, Benedict moved towards the head of the stairs ; for a 
cheerful voice was calling him from below. 

It was Paul de Montreuil, in a laughing skirmish with 
his sister. 

“ Arnold ! Arnold ! Come settle this matter.” 

Benedict appeared at the head of the stairs, laughing 
through all his ill-humor. 

“ Well, what is it ?” 

“We have been managing a sleigh-ride. Peter and I 
have been in to town, and brought back a cutter that skims 
the snow like a hawk, with a whole nest of bear-skins. 
You never saw such a day, sharp and clear as diamonds : 
the snow is crusted like parian marble. I shall drive my- 
self: it’s no sleighing at all without that. Come and look 
at the cockle-shell.” 

“ Nothing of the kind,” cried Laura, laughing, and hurry- 
ing on her pelisse with its rich sable linings ; while 
Hannah Arnold stood by, holding a white-beaver hat, 
from which a long feather floated. “ You will spend no 
such idle time, Mr. Arnold. I have captured the cutter, 
put Peter in charge, and we are to have the first drive. 
Where is your greatcoat ? Come, hur;ry, for the enemy 
is growing desperate.” 

“ But I intended to have along drive with Miss Hannah 
Arnold.” said Pa#iL 


OPPOSING WILLS. 


93 


“ Plenty of time/’ cried his sister. “ Why, Hannah 
isn’t half ready. We can drive across the hills, and over 
to the Falls and back, while she braids her hair. Can’t 
we, Hannah, dear ?” 

“ Yes, indeed, I couldn’t go quite yet,” said Hannah, 
smothering a little sigh. “ After they get home, perhaps, 
if mother should not want me.” 

“ Of course your mother won’t think of wanting you. 
She never does want anybody when it’s inconvenient, — 
the darling soul ! Come, Mr. Arnold, don’t you hear that 
crash of bells. It makes my blood tingle from head to 
foot.” 

“Here I am at command, fair lady,” cried Arnold, 
coming down-stairs with a dashing overcoat on, and a 
richly-mounted whip in his hand. “If we are to rob Mr. 
Paul of his ride, let us make an affair of it. Hannah, get 
your overshoes for Miss de Montreuil.” 

Hannah brought the oversocks, and Arnold bent to one 
knee while he buried the shapely little foot with its satin 
slipper in the fur lining. 

“ Now we are ready,” she cried, settling her foot in its 
warm nest, and tying the broad, pink, strings of her hat. 
“ Ah, this is like Canada, bright, frosty, and cold. Never 
fear, Paul : we won’t be gone forever.” 

Away she went down the yard, and out of the front- 
gate, where Peter stood before a dashing cutter crowded 
richly with furs, holding a spirited little black horse that 
pawed the snow, and, tossing his saucy head, made the 
bells ring out with a wonderful clash every few moments ; 
for the exuberant oxygen set him crazy to be in motion. 

In sprang Laura de Montreuil, laughing a pretty defi- 
ance to her brother and Hannah, who stood rather ruefully 
on the door-step watching these proceedmgs. 


94 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Arnold followed her, drew her close to his side, with a 
pressure of the arm that made the breath tremble on her 
lip, — gathered the furs lovingly about her, and took up 
the reins. 

A plunge, an exultant leap, that made the strings of 
bells upon the harness ring out such a peal, and away. 

“ He — he — ki-e-e !” 

It was Hagar and Dan at the gate, yelling like mad. 
Arnold looked back. With a dexterous bend of his hand 
his horse was forced into a sweeping curve, and back came 
the cutter making a superb halt. 

“ What is it, Hagar ?” cried the young man, holding his 
steed in with both hands. “What’s the trouble ?” 

“You went an’ forgot der foot-stove, Massa Benedict,” 
cried Hagar, rushing through the gate with the stove 
held up high in her hand, while she blew the embers 
within till her face looked like an India-rubber ball that 
never could collapse. “ Jes yer put her feets on this ere, 
an’ they’ll be like two biscuits in de oven, — dey will now, 
I tell ye.” 

Arnold gave his whip a crack that almost took Hagar’s 
kerchief from her head, touched his horse and away again, 
leaving Hagar so lost in astonishment that she had no 
power to unpurse her mouth till the cutter was dashing 
along the road again. 

“ Let ’em go,” said Hagar, looking all her indignation 
at Dan ; “ dem tings nebber come to no good. Go a 
sleighin’ widout a foot-stove, — dem’s company manners, 
am dey ? Nebber mind. I’ll keep de coals hot for Miss 
Hannah, an’ her sleigh-ride’ll be just as ’spectable if de 
pink ribbins, and de white plumes, and de red shawls, 
ain’t a-flying out berhind. Thar now, as I’ve ’pressed 


OPPOSING WILLS. 


95 * 


my mind, jest carry dat stove inter de kitchen, and set 
it on de harth, Dan, if thar’s life enough in yer.” 

Dan took the stove meekly enough ; for as he had 
made up his mind to gossip a little with Peter before 
going in, the arrangement was rather comfortable than 
otherwise. 

But this state of things did not last long. Hagar soon 
came pattering down to the gate and carried Dan away; 
while she insinuated to Peter that a back-log was wanted 
in the kitchen fire-place, and that it took two men — if nei- 
ther of them were over smart — to roll one from the wood- 
pile to the nice bed of ashes that she’d just raked out for it. 

Peter took the hint, and directly both negroes were 
discussing church-matters before a splendid fire, whose 
foundations had been properly laid by themselves, and 
whose superstructure Hagar was completing with pine- 
knots, which blazed up at once and filled the whole kitchen 
with yellow light. 

The house was very quiet after this. Mrs. Arnold had 
crept up the back-stairs, carrying a plate of toast and cup 
of tea, with which she had disappeared into the chamber 
we have seen before to-day; and, Hannah, not knowing 
what else to do, entertained the young Frenchman in the 
out-room, who, after all, did not seem so very much disap- 
pointed about the sleigh-ride as one might have supposed. 

What did they talk of there in that dim, old-fashioned 
room, into which the sunshine came so goldenly, playing 
over the tall andirons, and melting into the more ruddy 
glow of the hickory fire ? Indeed, I cannot tell you ! 
Something very pleasant at first, if you might judge by 
the soft warmth on that young cheek, and the smile that 
mellowed upon her lip like ripeness in a strawberry ; but 
this was while Paul was talking so cheerfully, saying all 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


sorts of pretty things with one of the most musical voices 
in the world, trifling with his shy, little bird without ruf- 
fling its plumage. 

But after a while, when solitude made him bold, he 
began to talk earnestly, passionately, as she had never 
heard him talk before. Then Hannah grew frightened, 
and yet fascinated. She longed to run away and find 
some one to protect her, but would not have gone for the 
world : nay, she trembled at the very idea of her mother’s 
step on the stairs, yet was tempted to call aloud for her 
every instant. Then she began to grow very pale and 
solemn ; her lips trembled as if some one had grieved 
her. It was altogether a curious study, that sweet face, as it 
glided away into the shadiest corner of the out-room, but 
never could be entirely alone, for another face followed 
her everywhere, and would, poor girl ! forever and ever 
to the end of her life. 




CHAPTER VII. 

A HALF DECLARATION — PASSIONATE STRUGGLE. 

“ Where on earth are you driving to, Mr. Arnold ?” 

“ Into the town. I wish to show you the view from 
some of those terraces ; it is peculiarly fine.” 

“ Town !” cried the lady, with a pretty scream, 
“ town ! when you know I detest the very sight of a 
house that isn’t built of logs. Ho — no, I am dying to 
see the Falls, that we only got a glimpse of the other 


A HALF DECLARATION. 97 

day. It was for that I stole Paul's horse and kidnapped 
you." 

Arnold tried to say something of the happiness of a 
captivity like that; but secret annoyance distorted the 
words on his lips, and he said, rather sharply, 

“ Indeed, mademoiselle, you will find the road rough, 
and the Palls frozen to marble." 

“ That is exactly what I want, — a good jolting, — jump- 
ers all along the road, as you call those ridges, that shake 
one up so ; and an overturn in the snow, if one does not 
plunge too deep. Now, don't talk of roads to me. I like 
obstacles and difficulties, or how should I ever endure you, 
the most cross-grained, obstinate person in the world, 
every one says. 

“But I hope you will not say so, Laura." 

“ Laura !" 

“ Have I offended ?" 

“I don't know. Yes, of course." 

She blushed scarlet under his glance, for she felt that 
her own headlong encouragement had kindled the au- 
dacity burning there. 

“ Oh, if I only had a right, — if every glance at that 
face was not a presumption." 

She looked up, softened by the humility of his speech, 
but still dissatisfied by the tones of his voice. 

“ Why do you speak of presumption ? It is no great 
crime to forget strict proprieties for once," she said, gently. 

“The word, — -yes, you might forgive that, — but the 
feelings, the burning imprudence here, — who will forgive 
that ?” 

He waited a moment expecting her to speak, but she 
was looking out up the glittering snow-crust, while her 
cheeks glowed like ripe peaches. 

6 


98 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ You will not say one word to reassure me,” he said, 
stooping his head to feast upon her blushes, as a rapacious 
child devours fruit. 

She laughed, half nervously, half in pretty defiance of 
her own feelings. 

“I should not fancy that you required reassuring, 
Arnold. ” 

“No. Doubtless you scoff at the audacity of a farmer’s 
son claiming a right to possess hhman feelings where so 
much wealth and beauty are concerned. I have exposed 
the bareness of my antecedents, — taken you into the 
bos^m of my family. Do you scorn me for the plainness 
that seems like poverty to one like you ?” 

‘‘You know that I do not scorn you for any thing, — 
least of all for what I have seen in your home,” she said, 
with feeling. 

“ But you are rich, very rich, I dare say, — of gentle 
blood, too, and that means so much in foreign countries. 
Yours is an old name, a proud family : while I, — what on 
earth do I possess which can bring me on an equality in 
anv one point with you ?” 

“ It is not for me to point out your advantages, Mr. 
Arnold. But all the possessions you point out, are things 
in which I have no claim to merit. What is good blood 
bat an accident, over which we have no control ? Or 
wealth, which comes from the past without merit or exer- 
tion ? All that relates to you as a man, or me as a woman, 
you have left out : thought, energy, feeling, all that makes 
up life and honor.” 

Laura was greatly agitated as she said this. The color 
Hashed in and out of her face like gleams of lightning ; 
her lips grew bright with the words that passed them. 
He could feel her form tremble amid the furs. 


A HALF DECLARATION. 


99 


She had answered his question, — twice answered it, — 
and now he had no desire to press the conversation fur- 
ther : this was neither the time nor place. She was rich : 
she loved him, — this brilliant, stately creature. What 
could the ambition of man ask for more ? 

She was listening with parted lips. Her very soul was 
thirsty for the answer which her generosity should have 
brought ; but he only said, very softly, and with a humility 
that charmed, while it disappointed her, 

“ Oh, if I dared, — if I only dared 1” 

The blood burned in her cheek now ; the very snow- 
flakes melted into tears of shame as they fell upon its hot 
crimson. Every word she had uttered stung her like a dis- 
grace. Was he modestly retreating, now that she had 
gone so far ? She clenched the restless hand in her lap till 
the grasp pained her ; she bit her lips till they glowed 
lika wounded coral ; and at last dashed her little foot 
down into the bottom of the sleigh in a paroxysm of self- 
censugL 

“ miat is the matter ? Have I wearied you with my 
slow driving V 7 asked her companion, with tender defer- 
ence. 

“Yes, — yes, — no, — it is not that. You will persist in 
driving the wrong way. I wish to see the Falls. I will 
see the Falls. 77 


“ But — 77 

“ I will not listen to a but. Here, give me the lines 
and the whip. I know how to drive. You won’t. Oh, 
very well. If you do not turn toward the Falls, I will get 
out and walk there. Nothing can prevent that.” 

The young French girl said this with great satisfaction, 
for her spirit was all in revolt. She longed to do some- 
thing hateful, — to perpetrate an act of despotism which 


100 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


would convince him how very little her heart had been in 
the whole conversation. The coquetry of her impulsive 
nature came out in force then. She was glad that there 
was some one thing which he seemed reluctant to under- 
take. Her desire to see the Falls flamed into a passion. 
She would go. It was what had brought her from New 
Haven Nothing else could have induced her to take so 
long a journey on the very edge of winter. 

Arnold listened with a curve of the lip that might mean 
wounded pride, might be audacious self-confidence. But 
he turned his horse, and drove toward the Yantic Falls 
without a word. 

“The youth is father to the man.” Benedict Arnold, 
was not a person to be taken unawares, even at that early 
age. Of all places in the world, he would have shunned 
the Yantic Falls and its neighborhood, had the choice 
been left to him ; but the willful girl at his side had 
doomed him, and on toward that romantic jtffe |bey 
dashed, he too restless for silence, and she exactl^||lthat 
state of mind when wit flashes like chain lightning from 
the heart of a woman wounded in her pride. 

You never saw a more beautiful creature than that 
young French girl appeared, as they swept through the 
frosty air, along that line of shimmering snow, listening 
to the bells as if they had been bursts of martial music, 
her face all one glow of roses ; her eyes bright as dia- 
monds ; and her heart swelling with a storm of angry 
shame. Arnold could hardly maintain his cautious re- 
serve as he glanced toward her. 

But he would not commit himself farther, at least in 
that dangerous neighborhood. If she would go to the 
Yantic Falls, it must be with a burning heart. His was 
cold enough, at any rate. 


CHAPTER YIII. 


A WEARY NIGHT — THE FAMILY BREAKFAST — PARENTAL 
ANXIETIES. 

Meantime Amy Leonard had spent a night that she 
could never think of after without a pang of self-pity that 
made her thrill from head to foot. So young, so helpless, 
with no friend on earth to confide in, what could she do ? 
There was a little loft in her father’s cabin, over which 
the roof of heavy slabs shelved low and unevenly. Here 
her bed was made, and here she had slept through many 
a stormy night, defiant of the wind that whistled through 
the imjf jointed logs, and laughing in her sleep as the 
snow floated in light drifts over the healthy roses of her 
cheek." 

Cold and shivering, pale as the snow that still clung to 
her dress, she awoke from the death of her trance. She 
heard her father and mother breathing in the deep, sweet 

sleep which springs from toil, in the next room ; but the 

♦ 

very tranquillity of their slumber made her heart ache 
with new pain. She felt like a thief who had crept there 
to plunder them of all wholesome rest in the hereafter. 

It had seemed guilt enough to be Benedict Arnold’s - 
wife in secret, and without the sanction of his parents and 
hgrs ; but now — now if what he told her was true — if he 
was indeed the villian he had so flippantly proclaimed 
himself — if she — that thought ! The poor little quivering 
hands stole up to her face, the very remembrance of what 

101 


102 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

she might be seemed to brazen it with shame. Would she 
ever dare look any one in the eyes ? Was the foul asser- 
tion true ? 

The poor child was maddened as she thought how 
many months she had waited and waited, not daring to 
write — too timid for a question — waited in anguish and in 
silence for the first news of his coming. He had been home. 
He had voluntarily sought her presence, and for what? 
There she was left, with all that cold pain gnawing at her 
heart — with all that hot infamy burning on her forehead. 
She climb up the step-ladder to her little loft, and, shiver- 
ing through and through with cold, crept into bed. 

When that was done, for one moment she felt safe, and a 
little hysterical laugh died away under the thick coverlets 
But the very sound frightened her till she gasped pain- 
fully and drew down the clothes, struggling for breath. A 
dash of fine snow, which came with a gust of wind though 
a crevice overhead, revived her. But what was she to 
do? Where could she find a friend? Was it nofelPbtter 
to die ? 

She remembered the look of the water between the 
logs, as she and Arnold went down into the saw-mill that 
night, — how cold and quiet it seemed, with gleams of 
moonlight stealing in here and there. Just before she 
fainted, a thought had seized her to take a single step and 
end it. The water was very deep under those timbers, 
her father had cautioned her about it many a time — so 
deep, that when the ice was thick on the streams below, a 
poor frozen body might float under the hard crystal for 
weeks, and no one guess that any thing but saw-dust or 
drift-wood had harbored there. 

Amy rose up in bed. Why should she wait for the 
shame which was sure to come ? If he loved her no 


A WEARY NIGHT. 


103 


longer — if be really wanted to get rid of her, and had said 
those cruel, cruel things only to break her heart, why 
struggle for any thing more ? She were far better dead 
than alive — safer, and oh, how much happier. 

Ah me ! it is one thing to wish for death, and another 
to find the courage to seek it in those dark, cruel places, 
where suicide skulks and lures the lost soul on. Cold as 
she was, terribly as her poor heart ached, Amy was afraid 
of the very dark, and grew pale as death when the loud 
rush of the river met her unmuffled ear. She could feel 
the waters creeping around her like a winding-sheet, curl- 
ing in and out of her hair, cold and serpent-like. Not 
there, not thus, where her father won his daily bread with 
such hard toil, could she die. Her kind, good father, who 
loved her so — would he not rather keep her with him, 
shamed and broken-hearted as she was, than find her down 
yonder, dead and weltering among the saw-logs. 

She was beginning to feel a little comforted by this thought, 
when above the sound of the Fall came the heavy roar of 
far-off winds in the forest, and the deep sough of the pine- 
trees nearer, answering each other mournfully ; and they 
seemed to say, “No, no, never again — never again and 
to all this the cataract sent up an eternal chorus, that 
sounded afar off and inexpressibly solemn. It seemed as 
if a host of angels were wailing over her sin and pleading 
with her to be patient. 

As Amy listened, her cold hands folded themselves over 
her bosom ; with a gesture of unutterable helplessness she 
sunk back upon her pillow, quiet as despair. Thus, dumb 
and still, she was rocked into slumber, and the daylight 
found her cold and weary as when she crept up to bed. 

Amy heard her father walking about the room below, 
but she had no courage to move. His heavy tread on the 


104 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


floor, the vigorous energy with which he raked out the 
ashes and flung a heavy back-log into the fire-place, made 
her shrink and shiver like a frightened child. Then came 
the sound of her mother’s voice, — soft, drowsy, and kind, 
— as she had heard it every morning of her life. 

For the first time that drowsy softness frightened the 
young girl. A few hours had made that kind, common- 
place mother something to be afraid of, — a judge before 
whose sleepy blue eyes hers must forever sink in shame. 
Amy began to cry, — very softly, for she was afraid to 
make the least sound, lest they should hear it through the 
loose boards and question her. As she lay holding her 
breath, her father’s voice rose cheerily from the door. 

“Now, mother, is there any thing else ? I have filled 
the kettle and built you a rousing fire.” 

“Yes, Joshua: cut down a link or two of sassengers 
from the pole. I ain’t tall enough to reach ’em. That’s 
right, man. I’ll slice-up the potatoes, and have breakfast 
on the table in no time. Just go to the ladder and call 
Amy.” 

“ Oh, let the gal sleep. She don’t have a beau every 
night. I couldn’t say as much of her mother, when a 
young feller of my acquaintance used to be about : she 
was allers on hand.” 

i 

“ But she didn’t let her old mother get the breakfast, 
though, or I reckon Josh Leonard would a-thought twice 
about it. But go along to the saw-mill. I’ll hang a cloth 
out when breakfast’s ready.” 

Amy heard her father close the door with some cheer- 
ful rejoinder; and, turning upon her pillow, began to 
weep afresh. It seemed as if her heart must break, — up 
there all alone. How could they talk so cheerfully, — and 
about her too, — as if nothing had happened ? 


THE FAMILY-BREAKFAST. 


105 


Mrs. Leonard had spread her snowy bird’s-eye table- 
cloth on the pine-table, and was busy superintending a 
half-dozen little mounds of embers raked out in front of 
the great hickory- wood fire, on which her meal was in a 
state of progress. On one glowing mound a coffee-pot, 
with a broad, conical lid, was emitting a rich, aromatic 
steam that penetrated the whole room ; another was 
crowned by an iron skillet, from which came an appetiz- 
ing smell of fried cabbage. In front of the fire, an iron 
spider stood upright, holding a golden cake of Indian 
corn, which was just beginning to brown deliciously, while 
Mrs. Leonard was busy with the sausages in her frying- 
pan, which she shook up and turned over and pressed on 
all sides with her knife, till their flavor was enough of 
itself to satisfy a tolerably-hungry man. 

After all, Mrs. Leonard was rather a comely woman 
when seen in her natural element at the fireside. I wish 
you could have stood by her, that morning, in the blaze 
of that rousing fire, turning the sausages, stirring up the 
potatoes, letting a little steam off the cabbage, and lifting 
the lid of the coffee-pot with the flat blade of her knife, 
just to see if it was likely to boil over. 

With all this she found time to arrange the plate of 
golden butter, fill a saucer with apple-sauce, and have the 
blue and white cups in order, as if she had possessed fifty 
hands instead of that hard-working pair, which never 
seemed as if they could be overtaxed. 

Did I say she was a comely woman ? Better than that, 
I hope. A good housewife and a kind mother cannot 
well be otherwise than comely, though her features were 
carved from an oak-knot ; but Mrs. Leonard had a soft, 
racy sort of beauty about her, which was homelike and 
pleasant to look upon. Perhaps it had compensated with 


106 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Joshua for the want of more brilliant properties, and 
reconciled his sharp intellect to the slowness of hers. At 
any rate, they got along beautifully together, and no one, 
who saw Mrs. Leonard as she is before us now, ever 
thought to wonder at it. When she took the lead in con- 
versation, it was another thing altogether. But Joshua 
seldom knew that she was talking at such times, any more 
than he remembered the perpetual rush of the falls above 
his saw-mill ; for one said about as much in reality as the 
other. 

You might have wondered how any one could be afraid 
of that nice housewife, in her tidy cap, her cam-colored 
short-gown and petticoat, with those calf-skin shoes laced 
so snugly over her blue-yarn stockings ; for a more genial, 
kindly old body could not well be imagined. She looked 
up from the cloud of savory steam, and smiled like the 
sun in a mist, as Amy came down from her loft, — smiled 
down upon the simmering coffee-pot, and the brown Indian- 
cake, for she had a matronly sort of reserve toward her 
daughter, and would not for the world have met her with 
one broad look that morning. She remembered the days 
too well when she had to come down to the family -break- 
fast, after the stout man down at the saw-mill had been 
obliged to go home by starlight from her father’s door. 

It was well for Amy that her mother possessed these 
womanly feelings; for I am sure she must have grown 
quite dizzy and fainted, or burst into tears if the good 
mother had looked earnestly, when the pale face appeared, 
with its wild, shadowy eyes, and that wretched look. 

“ That’s right, Amy, up bright and early without calling. 
Just put a towel out of the window for pa, ^ and help me 
get the breakfast up. Bring a trencher for the corn-cake, 
and get the armed-chair for him . Snapping morning out 


THE FAMILY BREAKFAST. 


107 


of-doors, I can tell yon. Oh, here he comes, stomping 
the snow off on the door-stone. Take hold of the table, 
Amy, — not ,that end ; there now, just a little nearer the 
fire. Here, take my place by the coffee-pot : it’s warmer, 
and you look so shivery.” 

Amy took the seat which placed her back to the door 
just as her father came in, with his face as fresh and red 
as an April morning, from the washing he had just given 
it in the snow. 

“ There’s a clean towel on the roller,” cried Mrs. Leonard, 
pointing behind the door. “ What a way you have of 
taking a wash in the snow, Joshua !” and she stood 
smiling by, while he buried his face in the voluminous 
crash, and rubbed his arms down with vigor, as if he had 
been currying the fore-legs of a pony. 

' “ All right now, anyway,” he said, rolling down the 
sleeves of his shirt and buttoning the wristbands. “ Ha, 
Amy, up and waiting ! That’s right, gal. Now we can 
eat our breakfast comfortably.” 

Amy gave him one frightened look and busied herself 
with the coffee. Leonard caught the look, and his face 
changed. 

“Darter,” he said, lifting the hot corn-cake from its 
plate, and breaking it slowly between his hands- while a 
rich fog stole out from the golden clefts, — “ darter, what’s 
the matter with you since the day afore yesterday ? Mo 
ther been cross, or any thing ?” 

“ Mother been cross ! Oh, Joshua,” cried Mrs. Leonard, 
“Now did you ever ! As if I ” 

“ Well, well ; but Amy looks pale. Come, come, gal 
— oh ! ha, I remember now, a lover’s quarrel. Never 
mind, Amy, them things always come right, — don’t they, 
old woman ? But that young fellow mustn’t carry his 


108 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Hoad too high in this neighborhood. Pm beginning to 
think it’s time to be looking after you both. Why, how 
long is it, mother, since he began coming to the Falls ? 
Nigh on two years, I reckon.” 

Mrs. Leonard saw by the disturbed face of her child 
hat the conversation pained her, and, with unusual tact, 
put the subject aside. 

“ I declare, father, you’re too bad. I wonder how you’d 
a-liked it. Just as if we wanted to get rid of our own 
child. I say now it’s scandalous.” 

“ But I tell you, mother, the gal is getting sickly. I’ve 
seen it ever since she came from New Haven,” cried 
Leonard, earnestly. 

“No, father, no. I am quite, quite well; but in the 
winter time it’s a little lonesome up here.” 

“ So it is, gal, — so it is. Mother, we should a-thought 
of that.” 

“ Sartinly,” said Mrs. Leonard. “ The child hasn’t been 
to an apple-cut, or a sleigh-ride, nor nothing in a hull year, 
I do believe.” 

“And there was Ben Arnold out sleigh-riding with a 
hull lot of ’em, yesterday. I say, Amy, what does that 
young feller mean by it ?” 

“Nothing, — nothing, father,” cried Amy, breathlessly. 
“ They are visitors, you know, of course. How could he 
help it ?” 

“And leave you here to cry them eyes out 2” 

“ Oh, father, it’s you that makes me cry.” 

“ There, Joshua, you’ve done it, and I hope you’ll be 
content. It’s allers jest so. I really dew wish the men 
folks would mind their own business.” 

“Well, well, mother, break off short and I won’t say 
another word ; only get some yerbs and roots to make 


THE FAMILY BREAKFAST. 


109 


bitters of, and give her something strong every morning. 
I won’t see that peaked look in her face any longer.” 

After the breakfast things were cleared away, Amy sat 
down to her sewing by the window, while Mrs. Leonard 
took out her flax-wheel, and soon filled the cabin with its 
bee-like hum. There was little conversation between the 
two. The mother was troubled with a vague idea that 
something was going wrong with her child, but for- 
bore to question her, from an instinct of womanliness far 
stronger than her reason ; and Amy was buried in her own 
sad, sad thoughts. 

The sound of the saw-mill, harsh and grating above the 
dash of the Falls, seemed a fit melody for her thoughts, 
where all was discord. 

At last her mother spoke. 

“Amy, supposing you make some warm ginger cider, 
and carry it down to pa in the mill. He must be orful 
x cold with the wind whistling down-stream like that.” 

Amy started up with a faint cry, for the very sound of 
her mother’s voice made her nervous. The cider was 
soon seething and casting up waves of yeasty foam over 
the brown earthen mug, in which she thrust the red-hot 
fire-irons. 

Then she put on a scarlet cardinal belonging to her 
mother, drew the hood over her face, and went down to 
the mill, unconscious of her own picturesque beauty, as 
she picked her steps through the snow, holding the froth, 
cider in one hand, and lifting up her blue homemade skirt 
with the other. 

Just as she had crossed the road and was gaining the 
embankment of the mill, the distant jingle of sleigh-bells 
made her start. She stood a moment, looking wildly 
along the road ; then gave a leap down the bank, and ran 


110 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


into the mill, where she stood, panting and breathless, till 
Joshua Leonard came and took the mug from her hand. 

“ Why, gal, you are shaking with the cold,” he said, 
sitting down on the log through which a long upright 
saw was gnawing its sure way, and taking a deep draught 
of the cider. “ Run home, — run back to the house, I tell 
you. It was a kind thought, and Pm mighty glad of the 
drink ; but you are freezing, poor baby.” 

“ No, father, it is only the fright, — only coming down 
the bank so fast, I meant to say. Let me just step behind 
this pile of boards out of the wind, and mother’s cloak 
will keep me warm enough.” 

“ Well, well, but take care of the loose floor : if a plank 
tips you’ll never see your old father again, — only as he’d 
be after you sartinly, for what would the old chap be with- 
out his darter ?” 

As he spoke, the good man shook the now half-cold 
drink around in his mug and drained it off, with a deep, 
hearty breath, leaving a ridge of ginger on his upper lip f 
as he took the empty vessel away from his mouth. 

“ That’s something worth while on a cold day,” he 
muttered, wiping his mouth with his hand. “ Lord a 
mercy, how much comfort there is in this world, arter all ! 
No one that hasn’t had a darter like Amy, now, can tell 
how much : the gal’s worth her weight in gold.” 

At that instant, Amy was standing a little way off, with 
one hand pressed hard against her heart, and her pale lips 
slowly dividing, like a statue frozen before its position was 
attained. Her head was a little bent, and her wild eyes 
looked away down the highway. There was no motion 
in the girl’s bosom. The very beating of her heart was 
hushed as she listened to the swelling discordance of 
sleigh-bells coming up the road. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE MILL ON THE YANTIC — THE DEPTHS BELOW. 

“ Oh, how beautiful it is ! It is like fairy-land. Look ! 
look ! that old saw-mill perched on the banks. Was ever 
any thing so picturesque 

Notwithstanding the sound of the sleigh-bells, Laura’s 
voice rang out sweet and clear on the frosty air. She 
half started to her feet among the furs, and, seizing the 
reins, swerved the horse on one side, with a suddenness 
that ended in a discordant crash of the bells, and left the 
horse prancing and stamping in the deep snow, while the 
breath congealed around his nostrils, and a cloud of steam 
rose from his panting sides. 

Arnold clenched his teeth to force back the imprecation 
that sprang against them. But the young lady saw 
nothing of this, she still held tight to the reins, and. lean- 
ing over the side of the sleigh, gazed delightedly on the Falls. 

Arnold forced her hand gently from the reins, and 
grasped it hard, while his eyes dwelt on her face. 

How brightly the blood leaped to her cheeks ! How 
those eyes sparkled ! With what a gush of happiness 
those red lips parted amid their glow of happy smiles ! 

“ Shall we go on ?” he said, drawing her to his side 
with a triumphant curve of the lip. 

She drew a quick breath, as he relinquished her hand, 
but still looked out upon the Falls. 

m 


112 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ No, no. I must look at them nearer. Let us get out 
and find a view from the saw-mill. ” 

“ But it is dangerous. The wind comes howling through 
the rocks in a tempest. That old mill is the coldest and 
most disagreeable place I know of this side of Green- 
land.” 

“ Oh, yes, but I am so warm. Nothing chills me ex- 
cept a cold heart. There, fling one of the robes over the 
horse and let us go. He will be glad enough, I dare say, 
for you have driven him like the wind.” 

Mademoiselle de Montreuil sprang out of the sleigh as 
she spoke, laughing as her feet sunk into the snow, and 
there she stood, while Arnold flung a robe over the now- 
shivering horse, burning, heart and soul, with suppressed 
rage, and prepared to follow her. 

“ Not that way ! Not to the mill !” he said, following 
her as she ran along the road. “ We can find a far better 
view from that clump of hemlocks that hangs over the 
ledge up yonder ; the thick green of the trees will shelter 
you from the wind.” 

“ But how are we to get there ? The snow is so deep, 
and I can see no sign of a path,” cried Laura, stamping 
her pretty feet up and down on the beaten road. 

“ The crust is firm, — you will glide over it like a fairy. 
I may break through now and then, but what of that ? 
Just keep within this belt of trees, and take a sweep of 
that log cabin.” 

“ But that seems a very roundabout way, Mr. Arnold.” 

“ True ; but, in the end, we shall find it the best one. 
So trust me as a guide this once.” 

There was a meaning in his voice that could not be 
gathered from his words, — that subtle meaning which 
penetrates to the heart like the perfume of flowers, but is 


THE MILL ON THE Y ANTIC. 


113 


as intangible. She turned, with a blush, and, mounting 
the bank, followed him across the snow-crust. 

They left the road some distance below the cabin, and 
made their way along a belt of trees that sheltered it. 
There was no window on that side of the dwelling, a cir- 
cumstance which Laura did not observe, but which Ar- 
nold had taken into his calculations wTien he selected that 
route to the Falls. 

“ That must be a pretty little home in warm weather,” 
said Laura, looking towards the house. “ The rose-bush 
so full of red berries would cover half the cabin with 
flowers in the spring time. The net- work of brown stalks 
is a Yirginia creeper, I suppose. Then that great elm 
drooping over the whole ! What a superb tree it is ! 
Really, I haven’t seen so much taste since w T e left France. 
Pray, who lives in that cabin, Mr. Arnold ?” 

“ The man who owns the saw-mill, I believe,” answered 
Arnold, sharply. 

“And has he so much taste ? for really this is a rustic 
paradise.” 

“He is a hard-working, honest man, I suppose.” 

“Ah, but he has a wife, of course, and, it may be a 
daughter. All this looks like a woman’s work. How I 
should like to get a peep inside that cabin ! It must be 
charming. Can’t we make some excuse, Mr. Arnold ?” 

“I should not be willing to invent one. Our New- 
England people are a little shy of strangers.” 

“Ah, well, then it seems I am to give up my little ro- 
mance. How beautifully the snow lies among the hem- 
lock branches. After all, winter is full of pleasant 
things. ” 

Thus she rattled on, forgetting one object the moment 
another presented itself, and striving to cheat the indignant 


114 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


feeling which was all the while burning in her heart against 
the man who, at times, seemed to be trifling with her. 
Thus, every gentle word, every look of passionate devo- 
tion, — for he was not sparing of looks, — created a revolt 
in her imperative nature. The doubt which he left her in 
was at once a delight and a torment. 

At last they came out upon a ledge of rocks that over- 
hung the foot of the Falls. A large white pine swayed 
and sighed above them, answering back the sweet voices 
of the water, as ghosts may be supposed to reply when 
called upon by earthly prayers. The Falls were in full 
sight, wild as they came from the Creator’s hands, dash- 
ing over rocks, singing through chasms, and plunging 
downward with a force that made the trees on either bank 
tremble as if nature were stricken with fear, while con- 
templating its own wild works. 

Before the late snow there had been a thaw in the 
Highlands, and the Yantic was full to overflowing. Thus 
the rush of its waters took a force and volume almost 
terrific, — a force that even the sharp frost could not chain, 
though it fringed each rock with jewels, and scattered 
beauty everywhere around. 

In the summer time the Yantic cataract was beautiful ; 
from the leafy luxuriance of its trees, the profusion of 
wild blossoms that drank life from its spray, and the rich 
fleeces of emerald moss that clothed its rocks. But, 
now that the elms, and oaks, and ash trees were naked 
from root to branch, — when the flowers were all dead, and 
the moss crusted with snow, or jeweled with ice, the power 
of winter had run riot in the affluence of its beauty. 

Around the Falls every shrub and slender tree was 
drooping and alive with a fruitage of ice. Alder, spice- 
bushes, and long, brown ferns, seemed budding and 


THE MILL ON THE YANTIC. 115 

blossoming with diamonds instead of leaves. Wild grape- 
vines, heavy with stalactites that shone like prisms when- 
ever a gleam of sunshine reached them, v chained the cliffs 
together with ropes of crystal. All the broken rocks and 
sharp ledges through which the cataract hurled itself, 
were crested with fleeces of snow and drifts of hail, which 
the winds tossed from point to point, and scattered into 
new forms with every gust. Down these rocks, draping 
and crowning them, hung masses of delicate ice-work, 
forming ten thousand exquisite designs, which no art ever 
reached, and no pen can describe. 

Through all this bright tumult the Yantic leaped, in 
great waves of foam and crystal, shooting up whirlwinds 
of spray with every plunge, which froze as it fell a wild 
storm of brilliants, rattling over the crusted snow, shoot- 
ing through the evergreens, and clinging to each naked 
shrub, till a burst of sunshine shone up from the bed of 
the fall in faint rainbows and turned them into drops of 
flame. 

This was the scene upon which Arnold and his com- 
panion came with a sudden surprise. It is seldom that 
the elements combine to give a picture so rare. The 
human being who sees one in a lifetime, may be suie 
that he has caught one glimpse of beauty which the here- 
after can hardly surpass. 

Both Arnold and his companion were struck dumb, 
and stood there with the pine-trees drooping under ten 
thousand snow-wreaths high above them, the hemlocks 
trembling under their bright load, and the wild voice of 
the waters, answered hoarsely by the saw-mill just in 
sight. 

At first Laura grew pale ; then the glow came back 
from her heart, and a singular beauty flashed over her face. 


110 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The scene around her was full of inspiration, and out from 
the depths of her being came an enthusiasm so deep that, 
for the instant, her soul rose grandly away from, its earth- 
liness. 

She turned her eyes on Arnold, unconsciously claiming 
sympathy with these feelings. He was looking toward 
the saw-mill, with a hard, almost bitter expression of the 
eye that chilled her in an instant. 

“ Have you seen this so often ?” she said, with a feeling 
of disappointment. “To me the sense of beauty here 
becomes almost painful. Use could never change this, I 
am sure.” 

“ I,” said Arnold, starting, “ I was thinking how harshly 
that eternal saw grates through all the sweet noises of the 
water. If some flood would sweep the mill away, it might 
be doing good service.” 

“ Ah ! don’t say that !” answered Laura. “ It is a fine 
object from this point. One gets an idea of life and 
industry from it ; otherwise this whole scene would seem 
unnaturally wild.” 

“ It is a rude, unsightly thing, and I hate it,” said 
Arnold, bitterly. 

“ The sound is not sweet, certainly, but it suggests 
many noble thoughts. All this vast water-power was 
intended for something more grand than beauty ; yet, 
how perfectly the ideal is satisfied here, while the real 
toils for human good down yonder.” 

Arnold laughed, a low, sweet laugh, but still it did not 
melt harmoniously into the anthems thrown out by the 
catiract, and singing under the translucent ice-traceries. 
Laara felt the discord, for all her refined feelings were 
exceedingly acute for the time, while his heart was full of 
bitterness. 


THE MILL OH THE YANTIC. 117 

“ I did not know that you were a philosopher, sweet 
lady,” he said, at last. 

There was a sneer in his voice that irritated her. She 
turned her back to the waterfall, disquieted and half 
* angry. 

“Have we no feeling, no thought, in common?” she 
murmured, in a sad undertone, “ even in a spot so much 
like heaven as this.” 

His ear gathered up these whispers as they fell. 

“Yes,” he answered, in tones almost as low, one feel- 
ing, one thought, else what would life be worth.” 

She turned quickly, with the roses all aglow in her face. 
But he checked himself on the instant, adding, “ Friend- 
ship has many thoughts, and feelings in common.” 

She turned abruptly, and was about to leave the ledge 
on which they were standing. He checked her with a 
gentle touch of the hand. 

“ Why detain me ?” she said, almost with tears in her 
eyes, “I am tired of all these rushing sounds.” 

“ But I have not told you about this rock crowned by 
the great pine-tree that looms Qver us : it has a history 
which touches the imagination. It was from this rock 
the Mohegan Indians leaped into the boiling flood at our 
feet, rather than fall into the power of the victorious Nar- 
ragansetts, when the Indian wars raged in this neighbor- 
hood. A brave race were the savages who once held 
these forests. That, after all, is life ; to be the leader 
of daring men, in forest, or field, I would give up every 
thing else.” 

“ What ! every thing ?” said Laura, flushing warmly. 

“Yes, every thing, and almost everybody,” replied 
Arnold, kindling with the fierce animal courage, that was 
the redeeming point of his character. “To subduo 


118 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


opinions — to fight — to conquer — to enjoy triumph to the 
utmost — that is real existence.” 

“I can understand this if great results are to follow 
strife — to struggle for outraged rights — for freedom, when 
it is withheld — to protect the weak and defend the good ; * 
this makes warfare glorious— but bloodshed for the sake 
of bloodshed is terrible.” 

Laura spoke with power ; her eye kindled and her lips 
curved grandly. There was sympathy between them at 
the moment, for both were courageous to a fault— she in 
her moral Enthusiasm, he in physical daring. 

“Any thing,” said Arnold, bitterly, “any thing but 
measuring tape at a counter, or salt on the deck of a ves- 
sel ; such occupations outrage one’s manhood.” 

“ Does any thing outrage manhood which is not wrong ?” 
said Laura, gently, but with a gleam of pride in her face, 
for Arnold looked a hero while he was speaking, and every 
woman loves a spirit of daring in the man she looks up to, 
even if wrongfully directed. 

“ That depends on the person — I have no talent for the 
drudgery of work or trade, but where is the chance for 
any thing else now-a-days ? The Indians are all driven 
back, and there is no field of valor left to an American. 
If the country would rise up against our masters over sea, 
there might be hope ; but we are too busy raising corn 
and importing slaves for that.” 

“But the time may come, must, in the course of events,” 
said Laura ; “ this great land cannot always remain a col- 
ony to England.” 

“ Oh ! if you should prove a prophetess, as well as the 
most charming woman on earth, worship would be too lit- 
tle for you. ” 

Laura laughed, drew her hand from his, and said, “ It 


THE MILL ON THE YANTIC. 119 

was time to look after the horse and sleigh, the story of 
the Mohegans had made them both too romantic.” 

By this coquettish movement the imprudent declaration, 
which seemed constantly on Arnold’s lip, was driven back 
again, and they began to retrace their step toward the 
road. As he came in sight of the sleigh, Arnold uttered 
a quick exclamation, and with a hurried request that Laura 
would wait for him, dashed down the road. 

The horse had got tired of waiting in the cold, planted 
up to his knees in snow ; he had been fastened to a slender 
sapling, which grew among the brushwood by the high- 
way ; the very frailty of his bondage, perhaps, tempted 
him ; at any rate, after stamping the snow about with 
angry vehemence, and having shaken the buffalo robe com- 
pletely off, he began to pull at the slender tree with a vio- 
lence that splintered it in the middle, and left one half 
dangling to the halter. 

Thus free, away went the spirited animal, sweeping the 
cutter after him into the road, down which he dashed, 
homeward bound, with a tumult of bells that made the 
cold air ring again. 

Leonard heard the noise as he was setting his saw for 
its sixth journey down the great pine log it was convert- 
ing into boards, and calling to Amy that he would be back 
in a minute if she would watch the mill, away he went, 
full run, after the horse. 

Laura watched the chase a moment, laughing cheerily 
at the strife of speed between the horse and its master, 
then she began to feel the cutting wind, and looked around 
for shelter. The saw-mill stood temptingly near ; she had 
been crazy to visit it from the first — a splendid view of the 
fall could be obtained from one end, which looked up the 


120 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


stream. The moment was opportune, one glimpse at the 
cataract from a distance would satisfy her entirely. 

She turned with the first thought, seized hold of a young 
spruce-tree, slid down the crusted bank with a merry 
laugh, and leaping across some loose rocks, landed in the 
saw-mill — landed face to face with Amy Leonard, who 
turned white as death, and shrunk back at the approach 
of this brilliant stranger. She knew the face — knew the 
flow of that white ostrich feather at once, and her whole 
being shrunk and quivered, with a feeling so much more 
keen than she had ever known before, that it was accom- 
panied with a terrible dread. 

“Pardon, ma belle — that is, I beg to be excused for 
this rude entrance, young lady. I did not know that any 
one was here.” 

Amy lifted her eyes to the bright face with a sort of 
terror. Her lips parted to speak, but no words came ; 
then she turned, anxious to escape anywhere, or in any 
way. 

Laura mistook this emotion, which held the poor girl a 
slave beneath her eyes, and said, with an air of graceful 
deprecation, 

“ Ah ! I understand ; you dislike my broken English, 
when I, vain thing, fancy it so perfect; or, perhaps, I 
frightened you by that wild leap. It was the spruce-tree 
springing back, that sent me off like an arrow. Ah, ma 
ch re petite , don’t be afraid of me, I’m so harmless, like a 
bird in the woods ; and you see I must stay somewhere 
till Monsieur, I mean Mr. Arnold, brings back his horse.” 

“ I’m not afraid — not in the least,” said Amy, with a 
gentle lift of the head, which sprang from the pride within 
her. 

“But you tremble so , pauvre, enfant ” 


THE DEPTHS BELOW. 


121 


“ It is with the cold, then ” 

“ Ah, yes, the wind does rage down this hollow like a 
tiger, — and the falls, how plainly we can hear them roar I 
Can I see them from that opening in the boards V 7 

Amy bent her head : the mention of Arnold’s name had 
taken away her speech once more. 

Laura was vexed by this coldness, and with an impatient 
sweep of her person moved on. A single step brought her 
in contact with the saw, which was steadily eating its way 
through the pine log. She darted aside, gave a frightened 
leap, and landed on a loose plank, where she made a wild 
effort to recover herself ; but with the next movement one 
end of the plank sprang upward, tearing a chasm in the 
floor, through which she was hurled with a shriek that 
rose sharp and loud above the rush of the cataract and the 
rasp of the saw. 

A blow upon the heart had petrified Amy : a cry for help 
gave back all her powers. Her first effort was to stop the 
saw and the rush of water. She had seen her father do it 
a hundred times, but would her strength avail ? Another 
cry, faint and smothered, gave her a power almost super- 
human. It was wonderful to see the great saw obeying 
the force of those small hands, give up its bite^pn the wood 
and sink into helplessness. 

With almost supernatural strength she had chained the 
waters, but now the shrieks rose sharp and fast from the 
abyss beneath. She fell upon her knees by the chasm 
through which the stranger had fallen, and, clinging to the 
rough boards, looked down, searching the deep for some 
trace of the human life sinking and pleading there. The 
water rose high and dark under the mill, pouring with de- 
structive force through the sluiceway, and crushing the 
blocks of ice between the huge logs that floated there. 


122 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Amy saw the strange girl clinging desperately to the 
end of a great sodden log, which swayed in the current, 
and sunk under her weight with terrible threats of death. 
Even in the dark, and through the blinding water, those 
wild eyes looked out pleading for life. 

Amy stood up, uttered one cry for help, and, grasping 
the firm edge of a plank, flung herself down the abyss. 
With a lithe effort of the limbs she sprang to a cross-beam, 
wreathed one arm around it, and dropped to a log against 
that to which Laura clung. It knocked and jarred fear- 
fully, threatening every instant to roll over in the water; 
but to this uncertain support the young girl swung her- 
self. The sodden bark gave way beneath her feet and fell 
in black patches to the water. Besides this, ice had gath- 
ered over the log, and treacherously betrayed every effort 
to support herself. She flung herself upon her face, clinging 
to the log with one arm, and throwing the other blindly 
out, calling for Laura to seize upon it without fear. No 
answer came ; nothing but a gurgle of the waters, and then 
a rushing plunge of the log to which the wretched girl had 
clung. Still Amy writhed her limbs about the log, and 
stretched farther and farther over the waters, striking out 
wildly, and shaking the blinding drops from her eyes. 
Something floated against her hand, she clutched it with a 
sob of joy. It was the ostrich-plume and the white bon- 
net, a wet mass that shrunk to nothing in her grasp. Then 
her hand became entangled in another substance, that wel- 
tered up from the blackness like seaweed in a tempest ; 
she knew that it was human hair, — that the girl had sunk 
and was rising to the surface. A moment and she would 
be gone forever. 

Amy half lifted herself from her support, wound her 
hands in the floating hair, and cried out for the young crea- 


THE DEPTHS BELOW. 


123 


ture to seize upon her, and climb up the log : it was large, 
and might hold them both till help came. 

Laura evidently heard, for a white arm started up from 
the water and wound itself around Amy’s neck, clinging 
there with such mad frenzy that the noble girl was half 
dragged into the flood, where the other struggled for life 
Higher and higher that white wild face was lifted from 
the water, till it rose close to the other, so close that Amy. 
felt the icy rain from those tresses dripping over her in 
streams. 

But blinded, weak and chilled as she was, the brave girl 
felt her strength giving way. Inch by inch she was 
dragged into th#w r ater, spite of her courage, spite of the 
desperation with which she clung to a support that began 
to dip and turn under its increased burden. 

Laura made an agonized effort to save herself, the log 
gave a plunge, and rose with half its bark stripped off. 
Both girls were struggling in the deep, groping out for 
the loose bark, catching at the logs, and uttering choked 
screams that rose horribly through the gusts of wind wail- 
ing around the old mill. They sunk once and rose again, 
clinging together, both wild faces blinded by the long 
tresses of the French girl, freezing in each other’s arms. 

Again the current seized upon them, but a rush of foot- 
steps shook the boards overhead, and down through the 
opening leaped a human form, which tore the French girl 
out from the water, and left Amy struggling alone. 

She felt it, even in the agonies of death. The chill of 
that desertion struck to her heart colder than the ice that 
beat against it. Clinging to the splintered end of a log 
against which she had dntted, consciousness grew keen 
w r ithin her. She knew that, somehow, Arnold, her hus- 
band, was climbing upward through the weltering timbers, 


124 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

bearing her rival away to safety, while she was left be 
hind, freezing to death. He wished her to die, — for that 
he had left her. She must sink there and be swept under 
the logs, through the whirling drift-wood, — away into eter- 
nal darkness, while they mounted to life and light. Be it 
so. Her freezing fingers lost their hold on the wood : her 
very soul grew cold. She felt a great rushing of waters 
over her head, and then, above all, a hoarse shout, “ My 
child ! my child ! Amy ! Amy !” 

Down through the broken floor, — down to the ice-clad 
logs into the black waters, — Joshua Leonard plunged, 
dove, rose again, and made another swoop under the tim- 
bers, huddled together by the current, seeching madly for 
his child, — the brave young creature that had been swept 
away before his eyes. 

He was gone a long, long time, — an eternity if any lov- 
ing heart had looked on, a minute in the silence of that 
lonely place. At length he came up between two huge 
logs, beating the water with one arm, and holding her to 
his breast with the other. He was a powerful man, and 
seizing on the slippery logs turned them into slaves, and, 
crowding them close together, strode over the uncertain 
bridge so quickly that there was no time for danger, till 
he reached some projecting timbers, and climbing up them 
came out in the upper mill. 

No one was there ; Arnold had carried Laura into the 
cabin, and Mrs. Leonard, all unconscious of her child’s dan- 
ger, was striving to unfasten the heavy garments that still 
clung around her. While she was stooping kindly over 
the helpless girl the cabin-door flew open, and Leonard 
came in, with Amy held tightly to his broad chest. 


CHAPTER X. 


AFTER THE RESCUE — ANTIPATHIES AND REPULSIONS — 
JOSHUA’S ANGUISH. 

Mrs. Leonard started up, left Laura prostrate on the 
floor, with her head resting on Arnold’s knee, and went to 
the help of her own child. 

“ Oh ! Amy ! Amy ! how did this come about ?” she 
cried, while the tears rained down her face. “ You in 
danger in the water, and I staying here with her ! Oh ! 
Joshua, Joshua, I did not know it ! I did not know it !” 

“ Get some blankets hot. Don’t wait to cry 1” 

“ But she is dead. Her fkce is cold as snow !” 

“ No, her heart beats against mine, — a weak flutter, but 
it is life I” said Leonard, while great tears of thankfulness 
stole down his face. “ I felt it in the saw-mill, — it beats 
yet. Thank God she is alive !” 

Arnold looked up harshly, as the old man thanked God 
for his child. Had he really wished her to die ? One 
would think so from his face, and from the sharp bitter- 
ness with which he spoke. 

“ And must this poor lady be left to die because your 
daughter has got hurt ?” he said. 

Amy heard the words, and moaned on her father’s bosom. 

“ God forgive me !” cried Mrs. Leonard, stricken in her 
conscience ; “ but blood is thicker than water, and she is 
our only child.” 

“ Yes, but, nevertheless, we should not forget the 

125 


126 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


stranger within our gates, ” said Joshua, looking com- 
passionately on the insensible French girl ; for the moan- 
ing voice of his child had reassured him, and his good 
heart was broad enough for more than her, now that his 
worst fears were over. 

u Here, undress the poor lady, mother, while I heat 
some blankets to wrap them in.” 

“ Give her to me,” said the good housewife, busying 
herself about the French girl, but still casting anxious 
looks at her own child. “ There now, father, bring out 
the warming-pan, — heap it with red-hot coals. Never 
mind scorching the sheets. Sprinkle a handful of brown 
sugar over the coals, and let Ben Arnold warm the bed 
in that room, while you heat the blankets to wrap them 
up in.” 

While the good woman spoke, she was taking off 
Laura’s cloak and over-garments, wringing out the ice as 
it melted from her hair, and strove to force her heart into 
the work ; though it would go where nature sent it, spite 
of her husband’s commands. Nay, I fear that she sur- 
reptitiously left the stranger, when the two men were 
safely shut up in the bedroom, and took off Amy’s wet 
garments first, bestowing a burst of tears and pitying 
kisses on her pale face and arms, as she rolled her in the 
hot blankets, and flung the warmest comforter over her. 

Then, smitten with a sense of her own selfishness, she 
returned to the stranger, sufficiently reassured to take 
considerable interest in the gold chain which she removed 
from her neck, and to remark the # embroidery with which 
the delicate linen was enriched, with a wonder that ap- 
proached condemnation. But when she saw how cold 
and marble-like was the form beneath, her good heart rose 
again, and she wrapped the helpless girl up with motherly 


AFTER THE RESCUE. 


127 


tenderness, gentle as that bestowed on her own child, 
hoping, with tears in her eyes, that life might not be quite 
gone. 

At last the bed was prepared, and those young crea- 
tures were laid within it, side by side, lovingly as if they 
had been sisters. Joshua Leonard heaped wood on the 
fire, muttering thankful prayers all the time ; but Arnold 
grew restless when he saw the two girls lying there, so 
close together, and began pacing the floor with abrupt 
strides, as if there were bitterness somewhere in his heart 
that required motion. 

“ Has she moved yet ? Has she opened her eyes V 
he demanded, with a degree of impatience that amounted 
to imperiousness, as Mrs. Leonard came from the bed 
with a brighter face than she had worn yet. 

“ Yes, she opened her eyes, and — and whispered some- 
thing. I am almost sure it was mother that she said.” 

Arnold turned away impatiently ; then looked back, 
and, suppressing some word that had sprung to his lip, 
said, 

“ I was speaking of the young lady, Mrs. Leonard.” 

“ And forgot to care whether Amy lived or died ? I’m 
very much obliged, Mr. Arnold. If any body had told 
me this a year ago, I shouldn’t a-believed it, — no, not if 
it had been the minister himself. ” 

Arnold turned pale, and then flushed angrily. 

“ The young lady is under my care, Mrs. Leonard. I 
am responsible for her safety ; though, heaven knows, I 
had no idea of her going down to that rickety old mill, 
and would have prevented it at any cost. But the 
chances and her own obstinacy have been against me, 
ever since we started from home. Then that infernal 
horse must break loose, and force me to leave ler when 


128 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


her imagination was all bewildered, and her pride aroused ; 
but how she came into that water-trap, I cannot imagine, 
unless your precious daughter, who was evidently in the 
mill, enticed her. 

The last part of this speech was muttered in an under- 
tone, and after Mrs. Leonard had entered the bedroom, 
in answer to a low voice that called, 

“ Mother,” said the voice, “ she has moved a little. She 
is beginning to breathe. I have had her hand between 
both mine. See if it isn’t growing warmer.” 

Mrs. Leonard put her hand under the bedclothes, and 
laid it on the French girl’s heart. It fluttered against her 
palm, growing stronger with each beat. 

“Yes, yes, Amy, she’s getting warm, sure enough. 
There now, did you ever ? her eyes are wide open, and 
she is trying to speak.” 

A low moan came from Amy’s side of the bed, and, turn- 
ing her face on the pillow, she began to cry, but so noise- 
lessly, that no one heard her. 

• The French girl did not speak, but her eyes wandered 
around the room, as if searching for some person. 

Arnold was in the next room, but his tread, as he moved 
up and down, could be plainly heard. 

“ Who is that ?” she whispered, with a struggle. 

“No one who will disturb you,” said Mrs. Leonard, 
whose heart, from some mysterious cause, began to rise 
against the poor girl. 

“But I know it is his step,” murmured the dreaming 
girl, “ I know it is his step,” and, as if this certainty com- 
posed her, she dropped off into sleep, almost smiling. 

Amy listened, and shrunk away farther and farther 
toward the verge of the bed. By-and-by Arnold’s step 
approached the door, and paused there. Then the chill 


AFTER THE RESCUE. 129 

came over that delicate frame once more, and she began 
to shiver ; for the remembrance that she had been left to 
die in the water, fell sharply upon her, and she wondered 
why God had permitted her to be saved when life was 
such pain. 

The step aroused Laura again. She put up her hand, 
pulled the blankets down from her face, and strove to lift 
her head, but life was not strong enough in her for that ; 
she only made a feeble movement, which left a smile on 
her lips, for she felt that he was drawing near the bed. 

Arnold addressed her, for the first time, in very broken 
and imperfect French, — so imperfect, that she would have 
smiled at another time ; but now it was the sweetest 
sound on earth, and her fine eyes opened wide, expressing 
the satisfaction she had no strength to utter in words. 

“ Tell me — oh ! tell me,” he said, “that you are better 
— that no serious harm will come from this, or I shall grow 
frantic with self-reproach !” 

“ You saved me,” murmured Laura, reaching forth her 
hand, from which the purple tint had almost faded. He 
took the hand in his, and a smile of ineffable happiness 
stole over her face. 

“ Every time I breathe it will be a joy, because life is now 
doubly blessed,” she said, with a sweet burst of gratitude. 

Amy could not understand the words, for they were 
spoken in French ; but the pathos and sweetness of that 
voice penetrated to her heart like poison. She lay still, 
holding her breath, and trembling. Then Arnold spoke in 
English, and made a common-place inquiry about Amy’s 
health, as if the peril had been only for Laura. But the 
French girl seemed now made aware, for the first time, 
that some one shared her bed, and with this knowledge 

came a clear memory of what had passed. 

8 


130 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Ah ! yes, there was another, — a sweet girl. But for 
her I should not have lived till you came, Arnold. She 
threw herself into that frightful abyss of her own accord. 
It was her hand that held me up. I sunk, sunk, sunk, 
dragging her with me. But you saved her also. How 
good — how grand of you ! Ah ! never in my life shall I 
forget that little peasant-girl, with her modesty and her 
courage. If she asks my life I shall give it to her twice 
over, for she is brave and beautiful like an angel. ” 

“ She speaks of you, Amy Leonard ?” said, or rather 
inquired, Arnold, looking down at the young creature. 
“ She says that you saved her life.” 

Amy felt herself flush under these praises, cold as her 
heart was. 

“ I — I wanted to die,” was the pathetic answer, given 
with a settled mournfulness that touched even him to 
whom she had become a burden and annoyance. 

“You certainly were very near your wish,” he said, 
turning his eyes away. 

“ And this is my benefactress,” said Laura, in English, 
turning on her pillow with difficulty. “It was you that 
saved my life. What can I say to you ? How can I ever 
thank you ? Oh, if my heart could speak, — that heart 
which would be frozen under the water but for your brave 
help ! Oh, how I will love you forever and ever ! I 
have been twice saved : by you, and then by him. Poor 
child ! how it trembles ! So weak, and yet so strong ! 
So timid, and still so brave ! She is not the pretty girl I 
thought her, but an angel who held me up till you came.” 

Laura stole an arm over Amy as she spoke thus, from 
the depths of her grateful heart, and would have kissed 
her, but the poor girl turned away with a heavy sigh, and 
closed her eyes to conceal the tears that forced themselves 


AFTER THE RESCUE. 


131 


through the lashes. Then Laura, too, was exhausted, and 
fell back into silence. 

Directly Mrs. Leonard came in from the fire, with a bowl 
of warm bread and milk in each hand. Seeing Arnold 
near the bed, her sense of decorum instantly took the 
alarm, and, setting the bowls upon a little table, she told 
him plumply that he had better go home and let his mother 
know, as there wasn’t any sort of use in his staying there, 
just to keep the poor gals awake when they ought to be 
warm and asleep. That was her opinion, and she asked 
nothing for giving it, good as it was. 

Arnold replied that he had not intended to go home 
without the young lady, as her brother would be greatly 
terrified. He thought, even then, that/her clothes would 
be dry in a short time, and she might be well enough to 
return to his father’s house before dark. 

That Mrs. Leonard proclaimed impossible ; and when 
he saw how completely Laura was exhausted by the con- 
versation, which had seemed so slight to him, the young 
man was constrained to give way, and, much against his 
will, drove off, cursing the accident that had thrown those 
two females so close together. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Leonard sat down by the bed 
with motherly kindness, which Laura felt to the core of 
her heart, and fed her with warm milk, as if she had been 
a child ; while Amy turned away her face and pretended 
to sleep, for she felt sure that a word or motion would set 
the tears flowing beyond her control. 

When Mrs. Leonard had attended to her guest, she 
went round to Amy, saw how the drops were swelling 
under those eyelids, and, with gentle fondness, attempted 
to soothe her. 

“ There now, daughter, take a spoonful of the warm 


132 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

milk. Father has gone down to Norwich for the doctor ; 
but, lor, ma is worth a dozen doctors any day, isn’t she ? 
Well, well, never mind ! Just lay your head agin me, and 
cry it out if you feel like it,” she whispered, caressing the 
head she had lifted to her bosom. “ If it isn’t enough to 
make any person histericky to be in the ice water under a 
saw-mill on a day like this, I don’t know what is. I de- 
clare your par was almost froze with one dive, and trem- 
bled all over when I gave him his dry clothes. It was a 
mercy this trouble didn’t come on Sunday, or his go-to- 
meeting suit would a been ruined teetotally. He’s got it 
on to-day — no help for it any how, for the others was drip- 
ping. Then about this young lady’s things, it really is 
dreadful. Such fine velvet and broadcloth as her cloak is 
made on, and her frock — silk as thick as a board — they’re 
a-hanging before the fire, and sending up steam like a 
dozen tea-kettles. Now, Amy dear, don’t you think you 
could just take a spoonful of the milk ? This is wheaten 
bread in it, white as snow. Come, come, just swaller one 
mouthful.” 

Mrs. Leonard was not an artful woman, far from it, but 
her long speech had a sort of tender deception in it which 
soothed poor Amy — gave her time to choke back her tears, 
and wipe away those that would force themselves through 
her curling lashes. She was grateful, too, for all her 
mother’s fondness, and made an effort to grow strong. 

“ Yes, mother, give me what you like. I want no better 
doctor than you are,” she said, folding one arm over her 
mother’s neck. 

Mrs. Leonard gave the sweet face on her bosom half a 
dozen kisses without stopping ; then she brought the bowl 
of milk, and Amy forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls, 


AFTER THE RESCUE. 


133 


which brought a glow of strength with them that delighted 
the mother beyond expression. 

Amy turned her eyes on the stranger that so unexpect- 
edly shared her bed, when, convinced that Laura was 
asleep, she drew her mother’s head softly down to her 
mouth. 

“ Mother, are you sure that she is asleep ?” 

Mrs. Leonard, who kept her eyes fixed on the sleeping 
face, nodded, and whispered “ Yes.” 

“ Then let me go to my own bed before any one comes 
I cannot breathe here.” 

“Weil, finish the bowl of milk and you shall.” 

Amy took the bowl between her two hands and drained 
it, leaving only a sediment of white bread in the bottom. 

“ That’s a good girl. Now put one arm — no, both arms 
round mother’s neck, and she’ll soon get you up-stairs. 
Dear me, how like old times it seems, when you was a 
baby, Amy,” she continued, lifting the slight form in her 
arms, and striving to appear as if the weight were noth- 
ing. “ I’ve got a hull chest full of blankets heating before 
the fire, so I’ll just pile them over you, for it’s cold up 
there, and I wouldn’t think of letting you get out of this 
warm nest, only it don’t seem to agree with you ; then 
you shall have a wineglass full of cherry bitters, that’ll 
make you sleep like a top, and who cares whether the 
doctor comes or not ? I’m sure I don’t.” 

Thus talking half to amuse her daughter, half because 
she loved it, the good woman carried Amy across the next 
room, and, after mounting to the garret with some diffi- 
culty, laid her in her own bed, sitting down to rest herself 
after the effort ; for, with all her kindly imagination, she 
could not lift the girl with so much ease as she had done 
nineteen years before. 


134 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“Mother,” said Amy, “do you think — did you see them 
together ? Do you think — he, he ” 

The good woman kept her eyes turned resolutely towards 
the little window which lighted one gable of the cabin ; 
for the world she would not have disturbed that young 
creature with a look. She did not understand all, kind 
soul, but enough to. bring her native womanliness upper- 
most. Before the poor child could complete her faltering 
question she took it up. 

“ Do I think Ben Arnold cares for her ? Not a bit ; 
she’s a bird with fine feathers, and he always was for show, 
but as for the rest, there’s nothing in it. There’s some- 
thing wrong about him, Amy, but it isn’t that.” 

“ Oh, mother, you think this, and I was so near upbraid- 
ing her. When she came dashing down to the mill, with 
all that finery fluttering in the wind, it seemed as if she 
wanted to insult me.” 

“ Pooh ! nonsense, Amy ! Why, with all her silks and 
ribbons, she isn’t half as handsome as my own daughter, 
and without ’em, look at her now ! Why, she lies there 
like a wet peacock.” 

“ Oh, but, mother, with all that beautiful hair, and 
those eyes ?” 

“Just as if you hadn’t beautiful hair, and eyes worth a 
dozen of hers. Don’t talk to me !” 

Amy was comforted spite of herself. Her mother’s 
positive belief found a willing convert. Then she re- 
membered what he had said to her only a few nights 
before, — how he had left h$r to perish in the water while 
this young stranger was saved. 

“ But, mother, he saved her, and I was left. I shall 
never forget it, never ! never ! to my dying day.” 

“ Well, I never did see such an unreasonable girl ; how 


ANTIPATHIES AND KEPITLSIONS. 135 

was he to pick and choose, up to his neck in water ? just 
as if he wouldn’t take the first that came, and off with her ! 
besides, I dare say, she screamed ten times whore you did 
once, — just one of the screechy sort, I’ll be bound. Now 
what on earth are you thinking of ; he couldn’t drag out 
two at once, could he ? Besides, I should like to see 
Joshua Leonard stand by while any one saved his child. 
I’m astonished at your unreasonableness, Amy, and if you 
wasn’t sick, and out of sorts every way, I shouldn’t know 
what to think about it.” 

Now there never was a creature so thankful to be 
scolded and rebuked for unreasonableness, as Amy 
Leonard proved on that occasion. All her mother’s 
soothing had failed to cheer her half so much as this little 
outburst of maternal disapprobation ; for it half persuaded 
her reason, while the heart remained quiescent in its fears. 
But for the secret which she was forbidden to confide to 
any one, — most of all, to either of her parents, she might 
have been tranquillized ; as it was, the pain was still at 
her heart, but a vague hope seized upon her, that all 
might yet be right. If he did not love another, and of 
that Mrs. Leonard seemed entirely confident, all must be 
well. When he said those cruel things it was to try if, 
under all circumstances, she could be faithful to his secret. 
What if she had spoken to the French girl, and given 
voice to the wild appeal that burned in her when the girl 
appeared so suddenly in the saw-mill ! That would have 
exasperated him beyond remedy. She thanked God that 
she had been saved from this temptation, more fervently 
than she had yet thanked him for her life. 

Mrs. Leonard^ sat and watched the changes of her 
countenance, as the pain cleared from it, and the gentle 
tranquillity of weakness settled upon her. Still Amy 


136 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


could not sink to sleep, for minor troubles came when the 
great idea was swept away. 

“ Mother, dear, did I treat her harshly V 

“ Harshly ? No ! What on earth can you mean by 
such a question ?” 

“ I turned my %?e away twice, and would not give her 
my hand when she reached for it.” 

“Well, what of that ! Lips and hapds belong to the 
owner, according to my idea. There was no harm in not 
kissing a person you had never seen but once in your life.” 

“Still, I am sorry, mother.” 

“ Well, well, we can make it up to-morrow. Now, go 
to sleep, or at any rate lie still. The doctor will be here 
right-off now.” 

Amy started up in bed. “ I don’t want to see any 
doctor, mother. Don’t send him up here, if you please. 
I’m not sick, you know, — only a little chilled and weak. 
I’ll take the cherry bitters, — any thing you give me, — 
but don’t let the doctor come near this room.” 

Mrs. Leonard looked about the garret with the keen 
scrutiny of a housewife whose reputation was in question. 

“ It seems to me that every thing is in its place, Amy ; 
and the room looks as well as a cabin can be expected to. 
Yet, if you’re ashamed of it, why then ” 

“ Oh, it isn’t that, mother : only I hate 'medicine, and 
j&on’t need any. So just promise that he shan’t come up 
here to spoil all that you have done.” 

There was no resisting this subtle flattery. If Mrs. 
Leonard had a weakness beside that of promiscuous talk- 
ing about nothing, it was that of believing herself a family 
physician of the first order. That this belief was not 
altogether unfounded, the general good health of her 
family testified ; so she gave her daughter the required 


Joshua’s anguish. 


187 


promise without more contest, and went down-stairs after 
the cherry bitters, which was the crowning glory of her 
cupboard. 

Laura was sound asleep when her hostess went down ; 
but nothing could withhold Mrs. Leonard from tempting 
her also with the cordial. She made a tumult among the 
bottles and glasses that soon aroused the stranger from 
her slumbers ; then, with a little extra bustle, and some 
consequential smiles, she came forward with a bottle in 
one hand, which she emptied very slowly into a tall* 
slender glass which she held in the othei;. 

“Take this,” she said, smiling blandly; “it will make 
you sleep like a top. I never knew it fail, when a person 
was worried out, in my whole life. Pm just a- carrying 
some up to Amy. She was afraid of crowding you, so I 
took her up-stairs. Come, just let me lift your head a 
little. There, now, take a good swaller : it’ll make the 
blood tingle, I can tell you.” 

Laura drank the ruby liquid with docility, murmured 
that she hoped Amy was better, and sunk to rest again, 
yielding heavily to the exhaustion that oppressed her. 

Amy only slept in snatches. A thought that the doctor 
might come up to her room when she was asleep, spite 
of her mother’s promise, troubled her greatly. The 
sound of the waterfall, reminding her of the tumultuous 
rush of waves, in which she seemed again struggling, 
kept her restless. If she closed her eyes, it was to feel 
herself plunging down, down, into a gulf of waters, in 
which huge black logs were floating like monsters ready 
to devour her. Then she dreamed of Arnold, — a strange, 
weird dream, that made her moan and weep in the midst 
of her slumbers. She thought that he, instead of her 
mother, held the blood-red potion and tall wine-glass at 


L38 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

her bedside. She saw by his face and knew in her heart 
that there was poison in the liquid, and that he wished 
her to drink it and die. Still she was determined to drain 
the glass : when death came from his hands she would 
not reject it. But all at once a little child — an angel 
child — floated down from some invisible place in the room, 
and spread its wings, delicate as star-beams, over the 
glass. Reach forth her hand, or struggle as she would, 
there was the angel child, guarding the cup with his 
wings, and she could not drink, — even to please him. 

From this dream she awoke with a wild start, for there 
i^as a sound of bellu stopping suddenly before the house : 
md the tramp of feet on the doorstep made her tremble. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE VILLAGE DOCTOR — HIS TWO PATIENTS. 

It was the doctor from Norwich, who left his horse tied 
to the fence knee-deep in snow while he went up to the 
cabin with a pair of leathern saddle-bags swung over his 
arm and a riding- whip in his hand. 

Mrs. Leonard met him at the door, ready with a broom 
to sweep the snow from his boots. 

“ Oh, bother : never mind the snow. What of my 
patients, ha ? drowned or froze to death, — which ?” 

“ They are both alive and comfortable, I reckon,” said 
Mrs. Leonard, with the air of one who felt conscious of 
deserving praise and meant to have it. 

“ What have you done for ’em, ha ?” 


THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 139 

“ Rolled ’em in blankets before the fire at first ; heated 
the bed with burnt sugar till it smoked again, and 
tucked ’em in.” 

“ All right, as if I’d been here myself. Pure good sense, 
— good sense, Mrs. Leonard. Only what on earth did you 
send after me for ?” 

“ It’s best to be sure one is doing right, you know, 
doctor. Besides, the old man wouldn’t a been contented 
without you. He thinks nobody don’t know nothing that 
hasn’t been to college : so just step in and let me shut the 
door. The young lady is in the next room, — Amy is up- 
stairs. ” 

“I’ll go to her first, poor girl!” said the doctor. “I 
mustn’t let her suffer, whatever comes of it. If your 
husband hadn’t hurried on after young Arnold, I shouldn’t 
have known that Amy was under the mill at all. The 
young chap only spoke of the French girl.” 

“Never mind about that jest now, doctor,” said Mrs. 
Leonard, quickly, while she rattled the great iron tongs 
about the fire, that Amy might not hear ; “ but just go in 
and see the young lady. I’ll make a mug of hot flip agin 
you come out.” • 

The doctor took his saddle-bags from behind the door, 
where he had placed them, and went into the inner room, 
talking cheerfully. 

Laura had been aroused from sleep by his entrance ; for 
there was an outbreak of cheerfulness in his voice that 
carried an idea of warmth with it. She looked out from 
among the blankets as he came in, and her eyes shone 
with pleasant astonishment. The grand symmetrical 
head, — that voice, so full of genial intelligence, — the 
brusque benevolence of his address, gave a glow to the 
heart that had hitherto rested like ice in her bosom. 


140 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

All unconsciously she smiled as the face beamed upon 
her. 

“ Well, my dear, and so you have had a ducking, eh ! 
Wonder you ever got out of that bottomless pit under the 
saw-mill. Narrow chance, — narrow chance, I can tell you. ” 

“I know it,” said Laura, gratefully. “If the young 
lady — Miss Leonard, I mean — hadn’t been courageous 
as a lion and good as an angel, I must have perished !” 

“ Then it was Amy, my pet of pets, that got you out ? 
Just like her, — -just like her ! The goodness that is, but I’d 
no idea she had so much strength. So little Amy saved 
your life, my girl ! Have you thanked God for that ? 
Will you continue to thank him all the days of 
your life ?” 

41 1 have only remembered to thank her as yet,” said 
Laura, a little disturbed. “ The shock was so great, the 
chill so cutting, I have hardly felt the power to think till 
your voice awoke me.” <4* 

“ Well, well, with life gratitude should come, and I dare 
say it will, for you seem a sensible girl, and it would have 
been a pity to have lost you under the ice. Cold yet, ha ? 
give me your wrist.” 

Laura drew her delicate hand out from its shelter in the 
blankets, and laid it in the doctor’s broad palm. 

“ Soft as a silk-weed pod,” he said, holding the hand in 
one palm while he smothed it down with the other 
tenderly, as if it had been a pet dove. “ Never knew 
what it was to work, I dare say ?” 

“ No,” said Laura, smiling : “ it is not necessary. I am 
only a useless, spoiled girl, doctor, with no one but my 
brother to love me very much.” 

“And, of course, no one to control you?” said the 
doctor. 


THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 141 

“ Control ? oh no, I shouldn’t like that,” said the girl, 
with an impatient movement of the head. 

The doctor pressed her hand in his, shook it with an 
anxious sort of sympathy, exclaimed once or twice, “ Poor 
thing ! poor thing !” and then began his professional par* 
of the visit in good earnest. 

“ Cold yet?” 

“Not exactly, — a shuddering sort of chill creeping 
through and through me, but not that horrible icy feel.” 

“ Pain ?” 

“Not absolute pain, but — but vague aches, as if I 
had been bruised.” 

“ Have, no doubt. Mrs. Leonard ?” 

“Well, doctor,” cried the good woman, coming to the 
bedroom with a pair of red-hot tongs in her hand, which 
she had just drawn from the mug of hissing flip. 

“ Any wormwood in the house ?” 

“ Wormwood ? Whoever heard of a house without 
wormwood in it, not to say catnip, pennyroyal, and wild 
turnip ? Of course I’ve got plenty of wormwood, doctor.” 

“ Steep some in hot water then, and lay it all o ver this 
young lady’s chest, — put something wtan to her feet. 
And then, my dear, go to sleep again ; for that is all I can 
do just now.” 

“ But when shall I be well enough to get up, doctor ?” 

“Well enough? Why to-morrow, I dare say. One 
good ducking shouldn’t keep you in bed longer than that. 

Laura turned her cheek contentedly to the pillow and 
closed her eyes. The doctor laid her hand softly into the 
bed, as he would have returned a bird to its nest, and went 
out smiling benignly as he entered the outer room. 

“ Here,” said Mrs. Leonard, lifting a brown earthen 
mug foaming over with the drink she had been brewing, 


142 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


and bearing it towards him ; “ here’s a mug of flip that’ll 
do your heart good, doctor.” 

Dr. Blake took the brown mug from her hands, looked 
into its depths with a smiling countenance, lifted it to his 
mouth and drank. Slowly the bottom of the mug rose in 
eight, and then with a deep, deep sigh, mellow as the 
wind which sweeps over an orchard of ripe apples, he 
returned the mug to its level, and looked into Mrs. Leon- 
ard’s face with a glance of sunny approval that went to 
her heart. 

“ Capital flip, Mrs. Leonard. There isn’t another 
woman in Norwich that could offer one a treat like that !” 

“ Supposing you take another drink,” said Mrs. Leon- 
ard, coloring with honest vanity. *I’ve got the tongs 
heating agin, anct can have a fresh mug ready before the 
old man comes in.” 

“ Supposing I do !” said the doctor, eyeing the drink 
with a side glance, and shaking it gently in the mug be- 
fore he lifted it to his moist lips again. # “ There, Mrs. 
Leonard, I feel like another man. Don’t forget to fill up 
for my friend Joshua, while I go to little Amy. A noble girl 
that, Mrs. Leonard, — one in a thousand, — gentle as a dove, 
and brave as a warrior. Some fine stuff in the young 
French girl yonder, but nothing to Amy ! The ladder is 
quite safe, I suppose. Why didn’t the child stay down- 
stairs : there was room enough in the bed for two ?” 

“ But Amy wanted to be alone. She didn’t quite seem 
to take to her,” said Mrs. Leonard, nodding her head to- 
wards the inner room. 

“ I understand,” cried the doctor, looking over his shoul- 
der as he mounted the rude steps ; “natural enough too.’* 

Amy was very ill, and shivered painfully when the doc- 
tor came to her bed. There was a sort of terror in her 


THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 


143 


eyes, which reminded him of a poor little rabbit that he 
had seen taken from a box-trap that morning, whose soft 
glance was turned imploringly on its captor. It seemed 
as if Amy were begging him to spare her, and he laughed 
at the idea ; for the pretty little animal, whose only fault 
had been a love of sweet apples, seemed to him no more 
innocent than the young girl. 

“ And so, Amy, you have been in the mill-race, like a 
precious, darling little dunce, have you ? Why, child, it’s 
a miracle you ever came out. Do you know that IVe a 
great mind to keep you in bed a week for it ? How can 
you look me in the face after such work ?” 

“ I — I couldn’t help it, doctor. It all happened before I 
had time to be afraid. She was sinking, you know, and, 
and ” 

“ You jumped in, like a brave girl. I wouldn’t have be- 
lieved it of you, Amy Leonard.” 

“ Oh, if you had seen her eyes, — those great; wild eyes 
pleading upward, and her poor hands slipping away from 
the log! Indeed, indeed, I could not help it.” 

“ Couldn’t help it ? Of course you couldn’t, — but come, 
come. Let’s see if you have been hurt by this crazy leap : 
give me your hand.” 

Amy reached out her little brown hand, which the doc- 
tor took with far more tender reverence than had marked 
his conduct with Laura. He felt the pulse, exclaiming, 

“ Child, what is this ? Your pulse beats like a trip-ham- 
mer. Is it fever or fright ? Why, how this poor little 
hand shakes : don’t snatch it away yet.” 

“ Oh, I’m n'ot sick ; but sometimes my heart beats fast, 
and then, of course, the pulse rises. I only want a little 
sleep to be quite well, doctor. Say that to mother, oi 
she’ll be fretting about me.” 


144 : THE REJECTED WIFE. 

“But you are not well. You tremble, and have fallen 
away : your eyes are growing large. Tell me, Amy, were 
you quite well before this happened ?” 

“ Quite well ; yes, I — I don’t know !” 

The doctor looked at her very gravely, and shook his 
head, at which she shrunk away, protesting that nothing 
was the matter. 

* * “ This will never do,” cried the doctor. “ You are worse 
off a great deal than the young woman down-stairs. Your 
mother should have kept you there.” 

“ No, no, I could not stay. She is strange, — that young 
lady I mean. 1 could not breathe.” 

“Poor little fawn, how earnest you look ! Well, well, 
the young lady will be able to go home in the morning, 
and then we will have you down-stairs-, while I ransack 
the old saddle-bags for something that will make you 
strong.” 

“ But I am strong.” 

“ My fawn, you are no such thing. I must have a talk 
with your mother about it. You’ve been pining about 
something, girl-like.” 

“Oh, doctor, this is cruel!” cried the poor girl, turning 
more and more pallid, while her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Cruel, indeed ! I only hope everybody will be as 
kind.” 

“ But what do you wish to frighten mother for ? I am 
well. How could I have held that young lady up in the 
water if I hadn’t been strong ?” pleaded the poor girl, 
piteously. 

“ That’s very true,” answered the doctor, with the tone 
and manner of a person who yields without conviction. 
“ To-morrow you will be down-stairs, as smart as ever.” 

“ Yes — yes,” she answered, eagerly. 


THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 145 

“ But I will drop in now and then as I ride by the falls, 
just to see how you get along. ” 

“Yes.” The word came very faintly from those pale 
lips. 

“So now good-by,” he said, pleasantly. “Keep your 
arms under the bedclothes, and drink what I shall send 
you without making faces. Do you hear ?” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

Dr. Blake went down the steps backward, and thus en- 
tered the room where Mrs. Leonard was waiting. 

“Well, doctor, has she got over the fright?” 

“ Oh, she’ll do well enough !” answered Dr. Blake, kneel- 
ing down by his saddle-bags, and preparing to open them. 
“ Bring me a case-knife with a narrow point. That will 
answer. Nowa scrap of paper. Not very strong lately, 
— the girl I mean ?” 

“ What ? My Amy ?” 

“ Yes, Amy. Touch of the high-po, now and then, ha ?” 

“ Why yes,” said the kind mother, drawing close to the 
doctor, as he measured some powders on the point of her 
case-knife and folded them in tiny bits of paper. “ Yes : 
she’s been sort of down-hearted and good-for-nothing 
lately ; yet nothing really seems to be the matter, — sort 
of feeble, that’s all. ” 

“ Oh, ailing A little restless, over and beyond any 
thing else, I dare say.” 

“ Jes’ so, doctor.” 

“ Anxious and watching, as if she expected some one, 
or was afraid of something ?” 

“Yes, sort of fidgety.” 

“ Starts when you speak to her suddenly ?” 

“ Yes, that’s jest it.” 

“ Seems ready to burst out a-crying once in a while ?” 


146 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Yes, and does it, too.” 

“ Especially if you speak very kindly to her ?” 

“ That has puzzled me, doctor. She can’t seem ter bear 
petting as she used ter.” 

“ That will do,” said the doctor, giving Mrs. Leonard 
the medicine, and buckling the straps of his saddle-bags: 
“ Fine young woman in there, — visiting at the Arnolds, I 
believe ? Your daughter has been in New Haven : I sup- 
pose she saw young Arnold there ?” 

“Why I reckon so, — of course. Why not?” 

“Why not ! Indeed he’s a smart chap, — too smart for 
these parts, — above visiting his old friends, I dare say.” 

“ Nothing of the sort, doctor,” cried Mrs. Leonard, blush- 
ing in her eagerness to defend the young man. “ He was 
up here the second night after he came home. Jest as 
friendly as ever.” 

“ To see you and Joshua ?” 

“Why yes — he came to see us all, I reckon.” 

Dr. Blake swung the saddle-bags over his arm, and 
went out rather abruptly, and with a cloud on his fine fea- 
tures. As he trotted off through the snow, the anxious 
expression grew deeper on his face. 

“ I wonder,” he said, looking back upon the cabin, “ I 
wonder if there has ever been a spot so remote that this 
one cause of heartache could not penetrate it. The child 
is too deep in love for any medicine of mine to bring her 
out, and jealous, too, poor thing. No wonder. The young 
scoundrel dragged out the showy French girl, and left the 
little one to help herself, — the hound !” 

All unconsciously the doctor lashed out with his whip, 
which gave energy to his thought, and set his horse off into 
a floundering gallop that flung a storm of snow all around 
him. Just then he met Benedict Arnold coming back 


THE TWO PATIENTS. 


147 


in the little cutter at a rapid pace, with his mother muffled 
up in the furs by his side. The doctor’s fingers tingled 
with their tight pressure on the whip-handle as the cutter 
dashed towards him. 

“ Stop 1 son, stop !” cried Mrs. Arnold, laying her hand 
on the reins, which her son handled with jockey-like 
ability. “ Here is the doctor !” 

Arnold drew his horse up with a sudden crash of ther 
bells, and his mother called out, in her sweet, low voice, 

“ Doctor 1 doctor ! How are they ? Is there any 
danger ?” 

The doctor drew his horse close by the cutter, and 
without looking at Arnold addressed his mother. 

“ Not if they are left in peace, Mrs. Arnold ; but you 
must not go up there now.” 

“But — but they will want care, and my son is so 
anxious. I could hardly persuade him to stay at home 
long enough to change his wet clothes.” 

“ Anxious ! what about ?” cried the doctor, looking full 
at the young man. “ Is it the French girl, with her frip- 
pery and her airs ; or Amy Leonard, the poor girl whom 
he left to sink or swim as she could. ” 

“ 1 am responsible to you neither for my actions nor 
my feelings, Dr. Blake,” said Arnold, insolently. 

“But you will be responsible to God for this day’s 
work, young man, and for that of many another day that 
has gone before,” said the doctor, with a sternness that 
was almost solemn. 

Arnold did not speak at once, but quick rage flamed 
into his eyes, and left his quivering lips pale as the snow 
that lay around him. He lifted the long whip, as if to 
lash at the doctor, but curved his hand promptly, broke 
into a defiant laugh, and the blow fell with stinging vio- 


148 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


lence on the spirited horse attached to the cutter. The 
horse gave a wild leap sideways : and then the ferocious 
courage of the young man broke forth with brutal vio- 
lence. Drawing the reins tight with one hand, he stood 
up, and the long lash curled and quivered like a snake 
around the generous beast, who reared, plunged, and 
fought against the strain upon his mouth till his limbs 
shook, and drops of blood fell from his torn lips upon the 
snow. Still, such was the strength of anger in the young 
man, that he held the animal firmly, rave and tear as he 
would. Mrs. Arnold grew pale in the face of this brutal 
strife, and now and then cried out, in a plaintive way : 

“ Benedict ! Oh ! Benedict, don’t !” which her son heeded 
no more than a tempest stops to hear the whispered com- 
plaint of a snow-drop. 

At last the horse stood, tamed and trembling, in his 
tracks ; then Arnold turned fiercely on the doctor, and 
demanded what he meant by attempting to stop them on 
the way. 

Dr. Blake, who had been gravely watching the contest 
between the poor brute and the brutal man, simply re- 
plied that the strange young lady had good nursing, and 
was getting along well, — so well that he did not wish her 
disturbed, even by her friends, who could not fail to be in 
the way in a small house already overfull. The doctor 
looked at Mrs. Arnold as he spoke ; and she, in her gentle 
way, which had a kind of sweet authority in it, said at 
once that it was best to return home. For the world 
she would not intrude herself into neighbor Leonard’s 
house, unless she could be of use. 

This decision, gently as it was given, Arnold was 
obliged to respect ; for his mother had yet a strong in- 
fluence over his wayward nature : so, wheeling the horse, 


THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. 149 

he drove sullenly back, without a word or bow for the 
doctor. 

Mrs. Arnold looked back, and bowed two or three times, 
as if to atone for this rudeness, — at which the doctor 
muttered. 

“ Poor woman ! unhappy mother ! there is deeper sorrow 
for you yet.” 

With these words the good man turned into a cross- 
road which led to another patient, ruminating, as he 
trotted along, upon the cases he had left behind in the log 
cabin. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE GUEST’S RETURN. 

When Mr. Arnold’s double-sleigh drove up to the farm- 
house the next morning, the whole family gathered at the 
front-door to receive the guest, now rendered doubly 
interesting from her recent peril. She was subdued and 
pale, — not so much from illness, it would seem, as from 
the chastening reflections that sprung out of the great 
peril she had been in, and a deeply grateful feeling toward 
those who had saved her from it. There was no light 
coquetry in her manner to Arnold now. With delicate and 
touching humility she had leaned upon his arm, and per- 
mitted him almost to carry her from the cabin, though 
Paul stood by, ready to perform this brotherly office. 
She smiled gratefully, as Arnold’s hands gathered the furs 
around her and held them in place with his circling arm 
She was so thankful for life, — so glad to flee from that 


150 THE REJECTED WIPE. 

black, ravenous vortex of waters where death had seemed 
dragging her down and engulfing her in terrible dark- 
ness. An intense love of life, of her own personality, had 
seized upon her, with the first realization of what death 
was. She clasped her rosy palms together under the fur, 
with a sort of ecstacy, rejoicing in the warmth, and shud- 
dering to think how cold and dark they might have been, 
weltering under those logs. Now and then she would 
lift one hand to her hair and smile to think that it was 
dry, — that the horrible dripping of those icy waters had 
ceased forever. 

All the night long, while lying in Leonard’s cabin, she 
had thought of herself only as dead, and sunken under the 
mill, with the black waters rippling through her hair, and 
her frozen limbs floating up and down in the dark eddies. 
The picture would not leave her ; and the falls, which 
grew louder and louder after midnight, seemed to be 
rushing wildly that way to overwhelm 4ier again. 

But she w r as in the sunshine now. The clear, bracing 
air made her strong again. She was fleeing from all 
thoughts of death into the broad light of heaven. The 
winter’s sun blessed her as it shimmered down upon the 
snow. The sleigh-bells sounded like a jubilee. Her 
heart was brimful of thankfulness ; but alas ! that warm 
heart turned in its gratitude rather to the man at her 
side than to the good God to whom the firstlings of every 
human soul are due. 

When she reached the farm-house and saw the wdiole 
family coming forth to meet her, tears of gratitude swelled 
into Laura’s eyes, and she stood upon the threshold-stone 
a moment, returning the soft kisses of the mother and of 
gentle Hannah Arnold, with a voice of thanksgiving 
whispering sweetly at her heart. 


THE GUEST’S RETURN, 151 

The family began to love her after this. With so much 
of her outward finery swept off in the mill-race, she was 
obliged to depend on Hannah, not only for her outer gar- 
ments, but for the dainty little hat, turned up in front and 
behind, which looked coquettish on her, when it only 
proved modestly becoming to its owner. 

These household garments, provided for her out of 
Hannah’s little stock, brought the strange girl more com- 
pletely into the bosom of the family ; it seemed natural 
to love her when she appeared like one of themselves. 
Then Hannah had her own secret reasons for a generous 
access of affection. Was not Laura Paul’s sister? and — 
and ? — The young girl was alone when these thoughts 
came into her head ; but she blushed crimson neverthe- 
less, and looked shyly around, as if some one could hear 
her heart beating, and guess the cause. 

Several days passed, and still these guests remained at 
the homestead, notwithstanding the restless impatience ot 
Arnold, who was almost inhospitable in his haste to be 
off. Laura was well now, and rosy with happiness, but 
she would not leave the place while one of her preservers 
suffered ; and Amy Leonard was very ill. The shock 
and cold had settled on her frail being. Dr. Blake gave 
no opinion, but his brow clouded darker and darker every 
time he rode away from the cabin. 

All the Arnold family went to the Falls ; but no one 
was admitted to Amy’s room except Mrs. Arnold. She 
found Amy lying white and worn in the little outroom 
of the cabin. One thrill, — half fear, half love, — and a 
glance of yearning deprecation was given to the little 
woman as she came in. Then the violet eyes closed, and 
two bright tears forced themselves through the shadowy 
lashes and were broken like crushed diamonds on her 


15 £ 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


cheek. How that poor young face changed as those soft 
footsteps came close to the bed ! You could see other 
tears swelling under the white lids, and the beautiful lip 
begin to quiver. 

“ Amy !” 

The young creature grasped the coverlet convulsively 
with her hand, her eyes opened wildly, and she shrunk 
away toward the farther side of the bed. 

“ My dear child, — are you so very weak, — what is it 
that grieves you ? — poor thing, — poor thing. Don’t cry. 
Mother Arnold has come to cheer you up a little.” 

“Yes, yes. I know you are very kind.” 

“ Kind, — oh, not at all ! But tell me, dear, what is it 
frets you so. It isn’t the shock of falling in the water : 
that wouldn’t last so long, or make you look so wild. 
Tell me — what is it, Amy ?” 

Amy shrunk away nervously. “ Oh don’t, — don’t. I 
can’t bear it. Please say something harsh and cruel, — 
cruel as death. I can face that, but kind words break 
my heart. Mother gives them to me, — father gives them 
to me, — and now you come. If I could only die, that 
would be best, — that would be best.” 

“ Why, Amy, are you growing sinful, — you, a church- 
member ?” 

Amy started up in bed. “Yes, yes : I am a church- 
member ; but you need not twit me with it. Don’t think 
I ever forget that I am a church-member.” 

“ Twit you with it, poor lamb. I bless God with all 
my heart that you are in his fold.” 

“ But what if I get out ? What if I grow obstinate, 
and break loose ; will you look at me with such kind 
eyes then ?” 

Amy clasped both hands, pressing them downward on 


THE GUEST’S RETURN. 153 

the bed, where she crouched like a pretty, wild rabbit pris- 
oned in a trap. 

“ Will you be kind to me then ?” 

“ How wildly you talk, darling child. Of course, I shall 
always be kind to you. Why not ? Haven’t you been to 
me like a daughter ever since you were born ?” 

Amy looked into that gentle face with a gush of yearn- 
ing gratitude. 

“ How good, how beautiful you are !” she broke forth, 
“ Oh ! if his heart were only like yours !” 

* “His heart !” repeated the little lady, in a low voice, 
“ Amy dear, do you speak of my son ?” 

“ Your son, — no, no. How could I ? What right have 
I to speak of him ?” cried the poor girl, in sudden terror. 

“ Don’t talk so, Amy. Of course you have a right.” 

“ How — how ? Do you think that ?” 

“ Just as good a right as Hannah has, for you are almost 
as much his sister as she is.” 

The guilty color came into that innocent woman’s face 
as she spoke, for she remembered Arnold’s words in the 
homestead chamber, and drew back on the very verge 
of comforting the weary-hearted girl, sadly conscience- 
stricken. Amy looked into her half-averted eyes with 
wistful earnestness, then her little hand, whitened into deli- 
cacy by illness, stole out and touched that of Mrs. Arnold. 

“ You seem like a mother to me.” 

Her pretty face was full of love, yearning and tender. 

Mrs. Arnold bent forward and kissed it, then the two 
clung together and began to cry. 

“ Tell me, Amy, is it because you love him ?” whispered 
the gentle home-mother. 

“ Yes, I love him ! Oh, I love him ! No one will ever 
believe how dearly 1” 


154 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 




Their arms interlaced closer, Mrs. Arnold pressed Amy’s 
head to her bosom and kissed it, saying, 

“ But did he do this on purpose, — did he make you love 
him ?” 

“ I — I think. No, no ; of course it was my own fault. 
I am such a forward, bold girl, — it is there all the blame 
lies. He make me love him ! It didn’t need that. I can’t 
tell when I didn’t love him.” 

“ How could you help it, Amy dear ? He’s so handsome 
and noble, — so true.” 

“ Is he ? Are you sure, — very, very sure ?” cried Amy, 
with a flame of scarlet on either cheek. 

“ Who should be sure if his mother isn’t ?” answered 
the little lady, flushing also, but with a fainter red. “ In 
some things, you know, I don’t quite understand him. He 
is proud and shy, especially about his likings. Don’t tell 
him, Amy, because I’m almost ashamed of it ; but I laid 
the most artful little plot to find out if he really did care 
about, — about any one, you know.” 

“ Did you, — did you, indeed. And what was his answer ? 
He couldn’t help but tell you the truth, I’m sure.” 

“ Well, dear, I’m not so bright and penetrating as some 
women, and though I was very crafty, I think he found 
me out, and put me aside just to punish me for being so 
deep.” 

Amy drew a long breath, heavy with trouble. 

“ Did he speak of, — of any one in particular ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; he mentioned you and that stylish French 
girl that you saved from drowning ; but that amounted to 
nothing. He wasn’t to be taken in by his mother, not he. ” 

u But you see him ; you are by when they talk to- 
gether ; you — you — oh, Mrs. Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, tell 
me, does your son love this lady ?” 


THE GUESTS RETURN. 


155 


Mrs. Arnold reflected a little, still holding Amy’s head 
against her bosom. Feeling the shiver that ran through 
that delicate frame, she conquered the vague doubt in her 
own bosom, and smoothing down the golden tangles of 
Amy’s hair with her hand, said, in her sweet, low way, 

“ No, dear ; I don’t think he loves her.” 

“■But she loves him. I know that she loves him,” cried 
the young girl, and a flame of passionate red came to her 
cheeks again. 

“ It wouldn’t be nice to say that about one’s own son, 
dear.” 

“ But you think it ; you see it. But how can she help it ? 
With /him all the time, how could she help loving him ?” 

“ Well, my dear, we must not talk of that. The young 
lady is our guest, and it isn’t for me to criticize her. Only 
cheer up and get well. I want you to come over to the 
homestead and make us a long visit.” 

“ How good you are — how kind ! Sometimes when 
you smile, it is so like him,” cried Amy, clinging to her, 
comforted in spite of her doubts. 

Mrs. Arnold smiled again. “Yes, I think he does look 
like me just a little about the mouth and eyes ; but then 
what is only a little nice in a little old woman is grand in 
him. There is no real comparison.” 

Closer and closer the young girl crept to that motherly 
bosom. 

“You wouldn’t be angry with Benedict, even if he had 
done wrong : that is, just a little wrong, — not told you 
something that he ought, I mean ?” she whispered. 

“ Angry with Benedict, the dear boy ! No, no, I couldn’t 
be that for a trifle. Young people will have their ' little 
secrets. You are very good to tell me yours. Be sure 
I’ll keep it.” 


156 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Amy kissed her soft cheek. 

“ And I’ll pray God to turn his heart into home paths, 
little Amy, and lead his thoughts back to those good old 
times when he would trample down a path for you in the 
snow, as you went to school together. What a pretty 
couple you did make. I had my own thoughts early as 
that. You are smiling child ; that is right, cheer up ! 
Remember, I’m almost as old a friend as your mother, 
and I’ll stand by you as if you were my own child. That’s 
right, smile again. How warm and wet your cheeks are, — 
crying and laughing at the same time : that is a good sign. 
How a nice, comfortable chat warms one up. When I 
came in you were shivering with cold, but now ” 

“ How,” whispered Amy, “ I feel as if roses were blos- 
soming in my heart. Dear, dear Mrs. Arnold, how I 
love you !” 

“ That’s right. How, snuggle down to the pillow and 
drop to sleep. I’ll come again.” 

“ Mrs. Arnold.” 

“ Well, child?” 

“ You are quite sure he does not care for her ?” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ And Mrs. Arnold.” 

“ Well, again ?” 

“ How soft the air is. I — I — am getting — getting very 
sleep — sleepy. ” 

“ I’m glad of it.” 

“ Yes, yes. I feel like a little bird sinking down in a 
nest lined with thistledown and silk-weed, and — and — 
Oh, I’m so happy — so happy !” 

The young creature dropped away, with these words 
melting like ripe fruit on her lips. 


THE guest’s return. 157 

Mrs. Arnold stood over her a moment, with the benign 
look of an angel in her glance. 

How gently the young creature had sunk into that 
healthful sleep 1 Comfort and warmth lay all around her. 
The breath came up from her bosom like perfume from a 
waterlily. 

Mrs. Arnold longed to kiss her, but that sleep was too 
sweet and precious : she would not disturb it, but glided 
softly from the room, holding up a warning finger to Mrs. 
Leonard, who drew close to her, anxious and weary. 

“ She is sound asleep.” 

Mrs. Leonard burst into tears. It was the first whole- 
some sleep Amy had known since that dark hour under 
the mill. 

Without a word, but smiling encouragement as she 
moved, Mrs. Arnold left the cabin, resolving — the gentle 
Christian — to talk more earnestly to her son, and so far as 
womanly faith to the sex would permit, plead her young 
friend’s cause. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED — THE HOLY FORCE OF PRAYER. 

Mr. Arnold, the elder, had driven to the falls ; and, 
while his wife was holding her motherly conference in the 
sick-room, he went down to the saw-mill and found 
Leonard busy among his timber-logs. 

In former years there had been great intimacy between 
these two men ; but of late Arnold had sought associates 


158 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


more congenial to his habits, and they had become almost 
strangers. There was nothing of Arnold’s former manner 
as he approached his old friend, who came gravely for- 
ward to meet him. Formerly, when he had been the 
richer and more prosperous man, his approach might have 
had something of patronage about it ; but now he seemed 
shy and doubtful of a warm reception. 

It was painful to see a man, really superior, with that 
down look, — a look that had sprung out of conscious self- 
degradation. He hesitated, cast anxious glances at the 
mill-tender, and once turned away, as if tempted to walk 
toward the falls. But Leonard’s heart warmed toward 
his old friend, and he called him back. 

“ Ho, neighbor Arnold ! Don’t turn your back on old 
friends. Come in ! Come in ! It isn’t often one gets a 
chat while the saw is going. After all, it’s a lonesome 
place up here ; so, while the women folks make a little 
visit, supposing we sit down and talk over old times.” 

Arnold’s hand always trembled now, but it shook like 
a dead leaf as Leonard grasped it. He brushed the other 
hand across his face with a hasty movement, complaining 
that the cold brought the water to his eyes ; and then 
^Leonard’s heart smote him that he had kept so com- 
pletely away from a man who had been a member of the 
same church with him, and, in more than the Christian 
sense, almost like a brother. So all the former friendship 
came gushing in a glow over his honest face, and shaking 
the hand in his grasp most heartily, he broke out in the 
old way : 

“ How do you do, brother ? I’m right glad to see you 
at the mill. ” 

Arnold gave one grasp of the hand that shook his, 
struggled against something in his throat an instant, and 


OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED. 159 

then, fairly turning his back, walked off towards that end 
of the mill which looked upon the falls. One or two 
great sobs broke from him, and then he went slowly back, 
trying to appear unconcerned. 

“I haven’t seen the falls since this mill was put up, 
it seems to me ; but we had a grand raising that day, 
anyhow.” 

“ Yes, and a prayer-meeting after it that none of us 
ought to forget.” 

“ I never shall forget it,” said Arnold, with a quick 
turn of the eye. “ It was the last I ever went to. — the 
last time I ever made a prayer out loud.” 

“Yes, yes. I remember the -prayer, brother. The 
Lord was with us that night,” said Leonard, kindling up. 
“ You asked him to bless the work our hands had done 
in the day, and he did bless it. That prayer-meeting was 
a glorious house-warming. It was like taking up one’s 
abode in a sanctuary, when the old woman and little Amy 
went to bed in the cabin for the first time.” 

Arnold’s face began to quiver; holy memories were 
unfolding, like bird-wings, in his bosom. 

“ They were pleasant times, Leonard. Our children 
were young and innocent : we had strength and faith in 
those days.” 

“ And will they never come back, brother ? The mer- 
ciful God rules over us just the same as then.” 

Arnold shook his head ; and, as if to escape the closeness 
of the subject, began to examine the timbers of the mill. 

“ They have stood the weather famously,” he said ; “ for, 
after all, it is an old mill.” 

“ Oh, not so very bad for that. It was raised within 
a few days of the time your store was burnt down. Don’t 
you remember ?” 


160 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Arnold gave a start, and the unhealthy red left his face. 
“ Don’t, — don’t. I can’t bear to think of that. It was 
— it was a ” 

“ A great trouble I know, brother Arnold ; but you got 
the insurance-money, and that ought to have kept you 
a-going.” 

“ Yes, I — we got the money, but I — I was worn out, 
you know, and it’s hard to begin life agin arter a fire like 
that. Such things take all the courage out of a man, 
Leonard. You wouldn’t blame me if — if ” 

The poor man sat down on a log that lay ready for the 
saw, and wiped the great drops of perspiration that had 
begun to gather on his forehead the moment this subject 
of the fire came up. 

“ Why, brother, I didn’t think you took that one piece 
of bad luck so much to heart.” 

“ Oh, it’s over now ; but I come to say something about 
our children, — about Amy and Benedict.” 

Leonard’s face darkened, and a look of distress came 
over it. 

“ The poor gal is sick,” he said. “ She was left in the 
cold water till the other could be dragged out. I was jest 
in time to save her dear life, brother, and no more. It’s 
a’most too tough to see that foreign gal a-going about 
fresh as a rose, while Amy lies there moaning her life 
out.” 

“ Is Amy as sick as that ? Poor gal — poor gal ! I 
remember her when she wasn’t more’n so high. I’ve 
watched her growing up to the harnsome creature she is 
now. It’s hard to know that she must have sickness and 
trouble like the rest of us, Leonard, — very hard ; and I want 
to save her from more. That’s why I’m here, old friend.” 

“ What is all this about ?” said Leonard, wondering at 


OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED. 161 

the agitation which was evident in these rapid words. 
“What harm threatens Amy, more than has happened 
already ?” . 

Arnold folded his trembling hands over each other 
again and again, looked to the right and left, as if tempted 
to run away and leave a painful task half done. At last 
he faltered out : 

“ Leonard, tell me : has my son, Benedict, been about 
the falls much of late years, — that is, since little Amy’s 
been old enough to care about such things ? I’ve been in 
a sort of dream, — a long, long dream, — and hadn’t a chance 
to find out for myself ; but you are careful, always at 
home, — you have kept your senses, Leonard. I don’t like 
to ask anybody else ; but you can tell me. Are the young 
folks fond of one another ?” 

“ They ought to be, — and why not ?” said the father, 
sternly ; for he fancied that Arnold, with some of the old 
pride, was about to protest against his sweet daughter as 
a fit wife for his more prosperous son. 

“Because,” said Arnold, with an effort that made him 
shake from head to foot, — “ because he mustn’t have her 1” 

“You say that to me, bro — Mr. Arnold ? If it wasn’t 
for the fear of God I’d ” 

“ Don’t, — don’t take it in that way. It’s all for her good 
I speak. She’s too young, — too tender : a little spring 
lamb that ought to be fed with white clover, and nothing 
else. He mustn’t have her !” 

“ What do you mean, old friend ?” said Leonard, feeling 
that, however strange all this might be, no offence was in- 
tended to him or his child. “ I hope, as a Christian — I 
hope you have not been — that is you — you are all right, 
Arnold.” 

The poor man shrunk into himself at this insinuation, 

10 


162 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


vague as it was. He swallowed once or twice as if sobs 
were swelling to his throat, and then he spoke in a voice 
so broken with sorrow that it went like a prayer to hi? 
brother’s heart. 

“ It’s a cruel thing to undertake, — it’s unnatral ; but 1 
don’t want to drag anybody else down with me, least of 
all you or yours. I don’t know how far this thing has 
gone, Leonard ; but don’t let my son — he’s my only son, 
you know, and that makes it worse — don’t let him marry 
your darter. I charge you, — I warn you, — don’t let him 
marry your child. I won’t stand by and see it done, for 
it’d be a sinful thing.” 

“ Why would it be sinful ?” demanded Leonard, struck 
by the passion of distress with which all this was spoken. 

“ Because your child is innocent ; and mine — oh, God 
help me ! — mine is not.” 

The unhappy man fell back to the log from which he 
had risen, and, clasping his hands, began to cry piteously. 

“ Don’t, — don’t ask me any more. I’ve done my duty, 
and you see how I am. You haven’t a drink of some- 
thing in the mill, just to give me a little strength ? I 
wouldn’t take a drop this morning, but it came harder 
than I expected. When a thing has taken root down in 
the darkness of your soul, it makes one tremble to pull it 
up. It’s to save you from trouble I did it, Leonard ; s a 
don’t be hard on me.” 

“ I know you are in earnest, and think there is good 
reason for this warning, Arnold. But what if the trouble 
is upon us ? — what if she loves him as our wives loved us 
before we married them ?” 

“ But she mustn’t, — indeed she mustn’t ! Let him fall 
in love with that French girl, I shan’t trouble myself to 
warn her ; but little Amy, — I couldn’t see Amy carried off 


OLD FRIENDSHIP RENEWED, 163 

in that way. She’s like my own darter. Now do re- 
member that I warn you. Words that make a father’s 
heart ache as mine does now, should be listened to, and 
minded. Mark that, minded !” 

“ I will listen to them. Without asking another question 
I will respect the warning. If he comes here again I will 
take this thing in hand.” 

“ That’s right, — that’s right ; but be firm. Don’t let him 
find you wavering like his poor old father. Be firm !” 

“I will!” 

“ As a rock ? — as a rock ?” 

“ I will lean upon the Rock of ages !” said Leonard, 
reverently. 

“ Oh, if I had something to lean on !” cried Arnold, 
clasping his hands ; but the next minute they trembled 
apart again. 

“You have, old friend,” and Leonard took both the 
trembling hands in his. “ The same God that answered 
us once will listen again. You asked for drink to give 
you strength just now ; let us ask for something better 
than that, brother. Let us pray together.” 

“ Me — me pray ?” faltered the old man. 

That instant the saw had traveled its course dowm tne 
log and stopped. The sudden stillness fell upon the old 
man like a shock ; he looked strangely around, muttering, 

“ Me, — me, — and here ?” 

“ Come,” said Leonard, taking him lovingly by the arm ; 
“ come, old friend, let us go away, — you and I together, 
as we have done a hundred times before. Let us go to the 
right place for strength and courage. This way, — this 
way. Never fear !” 

They trod a little footpath together, the Strong man 
leading the weak, till they found a shelf of rock overlook- 


164 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

ing the falls ; and, hedged in by evergreens on all sides 
but that which faced on the water, which sung an anthem 
around them that made the spot like a chapel, Leonard 
kneP down on the snow that crusted the rock. It was 
not his habit to kneel for prayer ; but just then his soul 
was full of devotion, and, before he knew it, the good man 
bent himself to the earth, even as the Saviour bowed when 
the most terrible of all sorrows fell upon him. 

Prayer was the great outburst for eloquence in those 
days. The best gifts that a man possessed were offered to 
his God. I do not know that Leonard had any great 
wealth of words or ideas ; but his whole being was alive 
with one purpose, and faith turned every thought that 
sprang to his lips into eloquence. Up through the clear 
winter morning rose the voice of that prayer, above the 
anthem of the waves, above the winds that whispered 
continually in the evergreens, above the sobs of th at 
feeble man, who kept his face bowed to the earth, and 
shrunk together with shame while the other prayed. 

But there is mighty strength in a good heart really in- 
spired ! Never — to use Joshua Leonard’s own words — 
had his soul taken such hold on the throne of God. He 
literally wrestled with the angels for that poor drooping 
life at his side. 

The powerful words that burned on his lips at last kin- 
dled gleams of the old faith in Arnold. His head was 
slowly lifted, his shrunken shoulders grew broader, the 
crouching attitude changed ; then his face was turned 
heavenward, and the bright sun fell like a glory upon it. 
The old nature w^as giving way. He had no words for 
prayer ; but when a warm and more ardent rush of faith 
came from ‘Leonard, a single “ Amen” broke up all the 
ice at his heart, and a shower of warm tears rained over 


FATHER AND SON. 


165 


his upturned face. Those pure, penitential tears ! Angels 
might have crowned themselves with such drops, and still 
remain all heavenly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FATHER AND SON — REBELLION AND REPENTANCE. 

After the morning when Arnold became acquainted 
with his father’s frailty, he had dared to despise the old 
man in his heart, — dared to let this unnatural contempt be 
manifest in his manner, if not in words, so that a new 
cause of separation had sprung up between them, which 
threatened to grow wider and wider. 

The father had not felt this so keenly till after his visit 
to the saw-mill ; for, when he suffered the pain of thess 
things, there was the liquor-case to flee to, and that dead- 
ened sensibility if it could do no more. 

But after that day all that was sensitive and refined in 
his nature took sharpness and force. With his system all 
deranged, and his nerves unstrung, he had taken a solemn 
resolution which was sure to shake his physical being to 
the centre. He was a broken-down man, and habits that 
had preyed upon him like wolves were sure to turn and 
rend him as he refused them food. A little kindness at 
this time, a word even of respectful sympathy from the son 
he could not help looking up to in many respects, would 
have aided him greatly in the terrible battle of appetite 
against principle that lay before him. 

But Benedict Arnold was a man incapable of repent- 


166 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


ance ; a strong, hard character, who never had and never 
could believe himself in the wrong. His own iron will 
was the only law he recognized, and the greatest sin that 
any of his fellow-men could commit in his eyes was to 
oppose that will. Perhaps he was lifted above petty sins 
because they were not the best aids to selfish ambition. 
He was a man to commit crimes, not drop into foibles, — a 
man of iron, with nerves of steel that vibrated only to 
his ruling passion. 

From this character, with all the fiery passions of youth 
inflaming his selfishness, what had the poor father to hope ? 

Two days after his visit to the mill, the old man went 
into the parlor, where Benedict was sitting with Laura He 
Montreuil, — who had been thoughtful and languid, but gen- 
tle as an infant since her accident. There was no more 
badinage, no coquetry in her intercourse with young Ar- 
nold now. Tlje pride had been all broken from her heart 
in those cold waters, and a light word would have been 
sacrilege to her gratitude. It was her duty to worship 
nim, — a sweet duty, to which she submitted herself without 
stint or protest. 

Arnold kept half aloof, both from her gratitude and her 
love. He did not evade or tease her as formerly ; but no 
engagement, not even a declaration, had passed his lips. 
Yet she was content from the very wealth of her own feel- 
ing, and she would whisper to herself again and again, 
“ Surely I could not love him so entirely if he were indif- 
ferent. It is not in my nature.” 

This unexacting state of mind pleased the young man. 
There was no longer a necessity to be on the defensive, — 
*o skirmish around a declaration which he was resolved 
not to make at that time, or in that place but which it had 
seemed almost impossible to avoid. It was pleasant to sit 


FATHER AND SON. 


167 


by her side hour after hour and witness the utter subjec- 
tion which love had made of her pride, — to hear it in the 
soft tones of her voice, and read it in the timid glances of 
her eyes ; for an all absorbing vanity formed the leading 
trait in his ambitious character. 

Laura had been more than usually gentle that morning, 
and Arnold’s self-love was gratified to the full. It was a 
triumph to have so completely subdued this spirited young 
creature by an act of simple courage which cost him noth- 
ing ; for many a time in his boyhood had he clung to the 
great water-wheel at the falls, and been dashed now into 
the waves, then lifted high into the sunshine, for the mis- 
chievous excitement of the exploit alone. Still, admiration 
was not the less acceptable to him because it was unde- 
served. Arnold had no sensitiveness of that sort to con- 
tend against during his whole life 

But the entrance of old Mr. Arnold was a shock to these 
complacent feelings. He had only come to seek Hannah, 
and, not finding her, was about to go away. The first 
terrible effects of total abstinence were gnawing at his vi- 
tals, and he staggered in his walk, glancing wildly around, 
disturbed by his son’s look and voice when he rose from 
Laura’s side and sharply demanded what was wanted, 
plainly showing the old man that he was considered an 
intruder in his own sitting-room. 

This question and the unfilial gesture of the young man 
gave the poor father a shock under which he broke down 
altogether. A trembling fit seized him, and, holding out 
his hands as if to ward off a blow, he cried out, 

“ Don’t ! Oh, my son, don’t !” 

Laura started up. She was painfully surprised by the 
scene and the distress in the old man’s face. The tears 
that gushed up to his eyes went to her heart. But before 


168 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

*she could speak, Arnold strode across the room, laid a 
heavy hand on his father’s shoulder, and thrust him through 
the open door into the kitchen. As he closed the door 
and returned to the room it was easy to see the unfavor- 
able impression this scene had left on the mind of his guest. 
She was very pale, and her eyes shone with indignation. 

“ How could you ? Mon Dieu ! how could you speak 
so harshly to the kind old man ? It will break his heart,” 
cried the brave girl. 

“You don’t understand. He had no right to appear 
before my guests in that state,” said Arnold, impetuously. 
“ I will allow no man, father or not, to degrade me in this 
way.” 

Laura moved a step forward with the old imperious 
air Her eyes glittered with tears as she turned them on 
Arnold. 

“ I’m sorry, very sorry for your father, Mr. Arnold. He 
seems ill. If you refuse to go and comfort him, I must.” 

Arnold colored violently under this rebuke. He really 
believed his father to have been drinking ; and wounded 
pride had stung him into the brutal act which the woman 
whom he looked upon as his worshiper a moment before 
had so pointedly condemned. 

“ You cannot understand, mademoiselle. Every house 
has its skeleton. You have unfortunately obtained a rude 
glimpse of ours.” 

Laura smiled painfully, and shook her head, — 

“ Go, — go out and beg his pardon, Arnold.” 

“ What, — I ?” 

“ Yes. You are brave : be generous, — be just. This 
scene disturbs my idea of your character, and I cannot 
bear that. Every thing about you seemed grand a mo- 
ment ago ” 


REBELLION AND REPENTANCE. 169 

Arnold’s vanity was touched. He also could not bear 
that any thing should check the idolatry of her regard. 
He kissed her hand, whispered that she was an angel, and 
went out, not to apologize, but to upbraid the unhappy 
father, whose state of moral and physical depression was 
pitiable. 

u Father, how dare you come in that room when you 
could not walk for staggering ?” hissed the young 
man, through his shut teeth, bending close to the stooping 
figure that sat heavily by the fire, with great tears rolling 
down his face. “ How dare you ?” 

The old man lifted his head, and looked sorrowfully 
into the flushed face bending over him. 

“ I — I didn’t mean to mortify you, Ben.” 

u You have done nothing but mortify me since I came 
home,” whispered his son, fiercely. “ Couldn’t you keep 
sober one week ?” 

The old man winced. 

“ I am sober, now, Ben, and that’s what makes me 
seem as if I wasn’t. It’s three days since I’ve tasted a 
drop of any thing stronger than coffee.” 

“ Then what makes you stagger in this way ?” 

“ It’s because of the craving want ; because — oh, my 
God ! my God ! help me, — help me, for this is more than 
I can bear !” 

“ Hush !” commanded the son. “ Do you wish to dis- 
turb our visitors ?” 

“ No, no ; I will disturb nobody, if I can help it. Let 
me alone, Benedict. It’s hard to fight this out all by one’s 
self. Don’t make it worse, for God’s sake ! Have mercy 
on me. I am wretched enough ! Do let me try and hold 
out ! It’s hard, — it’s hard !” 

“ This is unbearable ! Can’t you be a man, sir ?” 


170 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ A man I Well, yes ; I — I am trying. Half the night 
I was on my knees, in the cold barn, praying God to help 
me be a man once more, — out in the barn, remember’; — 
for I didn’t want to disturb any one, and crept away alone. 
I dropped the key of the liquor-case into the well as I 
went along, for it seemed to hold me down like a chain. 
That key might have been ten thousand weight of iron 
dragging at me, but I flung it down, down, down !” 

“ This is delirium. You have reached the last stage of 
a drunkard’s life, sir ! Why, every nerve and muscle in 
your frame is quivering. What use can there be in talk- 
ing to a man who doesn’t know what he is saying ?” 

“ My son — oh, Benedict, this is hard ! Don’t say it 
again ! No wonder I tremble ! The devil tempting me 
every step I take, — mocking at me when I try to pray, — 
taking all my strength when I walk, — tugging at my 
heart like a wolf, and crying out, drink ! drink ! when I 
sit down to rest. And now you come, — you, my only 
son, that I was so proud of once, — that I never refused 
any thing to in my whole life — you — you ! Oh, Benedict, 
this is tough !” 

“ I tell you, sir, this raving will be heard ! If you can- 
not command yourself I will leave the house this night, 
and forever.” 

“ You, Ben, you ? If you had never left it I had not 
come to this ! But don’t say that now ; you don’t under- 
stand how hard it is to stifle this craving. It makes me 
talk wildly ; but it isn’t drink that does it. That would 
make me quiet.” 

“ Then, for heaven’s sake, drink ! Any thing is better 
than this state !” 

The father shook the hand from his shoulder, and stood 
up, firm and strong, like a man. 


OPPOSING WILLS. 171 

“ So Satan comes in the form of my own son with his 
temptations ! This is horrible !”• 

He spoke loud and full ; the force of his rebuking eye, 
wild as it was, startled the young man. 

“ Hush I father, hush ! She will hear you !” 

“ Hear me denounce my own son ? Ho human being 
shall ever hear that. Nothing but God and my own soul 
knows any thing about it.” 

“ About what, sir ?” 

“ How it was I began to — to drink. That is what I 
mean. How it was that I lost a hold on all that makes a 
man strong. There was cause, when a father’s conscience 
goes against his heart, — when justice calls him one way 
and love another — when ” 

“ Once more, sir, what does this mean ?” whispered 
Arnold, clenching his teeth again. 

11 Stoop down here, Benedict, close, close ! You are 
sure Hagar is out ? — no one within hearing ? — you will 
know then ?” 

“ Yes, yes !” 

“ Closer, closer ! You remember that night — closer ” 

The rest of the sentence was whispered close in Ben- 
edict Arnold’s ear. He turned deadly pale ; but clutched 
his hand on the old man’s shoulder, whispering, 

“ Never breathe those words again to God or man !” 


CHAPTER XT. 


SECRET INTERVIEWS — REVIVALS AND REPENTANCE. 

From some cause, Arnold had ceased to urge an imme- 
diate departure from his old home, and lingered day after 
day at the farm-house, till his guests began to wonder at 
a change which, nevertheless, gave them great satisfac- 
tion ; for, as birds love to hover about the nest where the 
first brood of love has found shelter, these two ardent and 
excitable persons could not force themselves away from a 
house where the pure and deep sensations of a first love 
had found birth. 

After an absence of some days, during which Amy had 
been at her worst, Arnold came to the falls again. His old, 
half-loving, half-imperious manner returned, and though 
his visits were always brief, they brought hope and health 
back to that young creature’s heart. She began to smile, 
and even laugh, again blooming into health like a half- 
parched rose after an abundant fall of dew. 

Laura was not surprised at these visits : for, with deep 
craft, Arnold always managed that she herself urged him 
to make these inquiries after Amy ; and, as he seemed to 
go with reluctance, she only became the more urgent to 
express, through him, the (Jeep gratitude that really filled 
her heart when she thought of the gentle creature who had 
saved her life. She would gladly have gone to ihe cabin 
herself ; but Arnold only told the truth when he said that 
Amy shrunk from an interview with strangers, and sensi- 
172 


SECRET INTERVIEWS. 


173 


tively drew back from all expressions of gratitude for an 
act which was in itself only an impulse of common hu- 
manity. 

This was all true. The very thought of meeting that 
bright, dashing creature again filled Amy’s soul with a 
sort of terror. If the noise of sleigh-bells penetrated to 
the cabin, she would start and turn pale ; if a strange foot 
sounded on the threshold-stone, she would look furtively 
toward some door, as if impelled to escape. 

But when Arnold’s step was heard on the snow-path, 
her cheeks would flush into one bloom of roses, and the 
smiles that had forsaken her mouth for weeks together 
came softly back. Her gentle soul was reassured again. 

One night, when Leonard and his wife had gone to a 
prayer-meeting, Arnold found Amy alone. It was the 
first time they had been allowed an opportunity to con- 
verse together ; for, against their usual practice, the old 
people had, from the time of the accident, invariably kept 
their places at the hearth, no matter how long the young 
man lingered there. 

Now the two were alone, with nothing but the plunge 
of the falls within hearing, — with no more dangerous wit- 
nesses than the bright hickory- wood fire to bear testimony 
against them. The paper curtains were rolled down, the 
fire-light danced and shone on the pine ceiling, and the 
whole floor surrounding them, with a pleasant twilight. 

Arnold sat in the great splint-bottomed chair, whic 
Joshua Leonard usually occupied. Amy drew a little 
stool, covered with patchwork of red and blue cloth, to his 
feet, and settled down upon it, with a soft flutter of the 
breath, like a pretty pigeon when its nest is completed. 

After all, Arnold loved this good child after fashion, 
and might have loved her well but for the ambition which 


174 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


clung around every good impulse of his nature, as para- 
sites check the growth of young trees and at last wither 
them up. 

That night his face was bright and genial. It was 
pleasant to feel how completely that young creature loved 
him, — to know that with a single word he could fill those 
blue eyes, looking so innocently into his, with tears, or, 
with a smile, deepen the loving sunshine that flooded them. 
Even the thirst of his ruling passion was slaked here. The 
wish for control, the right of will, had a submissive object 
in that gentle creature. He could trample on her and 
she would forgive, — forsake her, even, and she would not 
avenge. Here he was all supreme. 

She looked into his eyes, and her hand nestled itself into 
his. One elbow was supported by his knee, and her chin 
rested in the palm of her other hand, which was curved 
into a cup for its reception. All at once a shadow crept 
over her face, and she shuddered perceptibly. 

“ What is it ? What are you thinking of, Amy ?” said 
Arnold, pressing the hand in his a little tighter. 

“ Of that day, — of the water. You left me alone, Bene- 
dict, — all alone to die.” 

He frowned upon her. “ So this is your faith, Amy 
Leonard ?” 

“ Amy Arnold!” said the young girl, turning white as 
the name passed her lips. “You must never call me any 
name but that when we are alone. ” 

Arnold’s face grew black ; he lifted her hand, as if to 
toss it away, but ended in grasping it closer, while his 
wrath cleared away in a forced laugh. 

“Well, Amy Arnold, for it shall be that some day. It 
sounds well, doesn’t it, little wife ?” 

Amy gave a low cry. Her head fell forward on his 


SECRET INTERVIEWS. 


175 


knee, and she began to sob, while deep, warm gusts of joy 
shook her frame. 

“ What are yon crying for now, Amy ?” he said, regard- 
ing her with a triumphant smile, while his hand wandered 
through her thick curls. * 

She only answered by raising herself softly to his bo- 
som, and resting her head against his heart. 

Again he buried his hand in her rich hair, pressing the 
face closer and closer to his bosom. For one moment his 
ruling passion was beaten back by the wings of Amy’s 
love-angel. 

“ Yes, Amy, it is a sweet word — wife — my wife. Some 
day it shall be yours.” 

“ And you will never, — never attempt to distress me so 
again ?” 

He did not answer, but kissed her forehead. 

“ But you did not mean it ?” 

“ No, love, no ; I did not mean it.” 

“You — you wanted to try me — to be certain I would 
keep our secret. That was all, Arnold, — tell me that was 
all. I am sure it was.” 

“ Yes, yes. I wanted to try you.” 

“ And you see — you are satisfied now ; for when you 
said those cruel things I did not speak even to my mother. 
When you left me in the water to die ” 

“ Stop, child ! Don’t say that again. I — thought it 
was you that filled my arms. How could I tell in the 
dark ? What could I do but seize the first form that rose ? 
I was coming back. It was all a mistake, Amy.” 

“ I know. I see it all now. How selfish, — how wicked 
I was to think it ! Forgive me, Benedict, but I was so 
unhappy, — so jealous ! I hope you will never know whai 
it is to be heart-sick as I was then.” 


176 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Well, well, don’t let ns think of it. We will have no 
more of these scenes. You know that I did not mean any 
thing, and I am sure that you will keep our secret.” 

“ See how I have kept it ” 

“ And always will. I can trust you now, Amy. You 
will never disobey me.” 

“ No, no,” murmured the happy creature ; “ for you are 
my husband, — my own, own husband.” 

She trembled blissfully as the precious word passed her 
lips for the first time, and stole glances at his face through 
her gathering blushes. 

“ You are my husband, and I must obey you. If mother 
owes duty to my father above all things next to God, I am 
a wife as well, and must obey every thing you tell me. 
Oh, I’m so glad mother got nothing out of me !” 

“ Did she ask ? Did your father question you ?” cried 
Arnold, sharply. 

“No, no. How could they? But they were both so 
kind, — so anxious about me ; and I suffered so with the 
thought of your leaving me to die, and — and with ” 

“ With what ?” 

“ With — but you will be angry ?” 

“No, no ; say all that is on your mind. It cannot be 
any thing very terrible if you have betrayed no secrets.” 

“ Well, I was so miserable while that lady was in the 
house.” 

“ Miserably jealous. Foolish child 1” 

“ Yes ; I suppose it was that.” 

“ But it is over. You know better now.” 

“ Yes ; oh, yes ! I hope so — but — but will she stay in 
this country long ? When will she go back to Canada, or 
France ? I should think she would be homesick.” 

Arnold laughed, and patted her cheek with his hand. 


SECRET INTERVIEWS. 177 

“ Never mind her. Think of something pleasanter for 
us both, Amy.” 

“ Yes, yes. I’m sure that isn’t pleasant. But one can’t 
always put disagreeable things out of the way, or I’d never 
think of her again.” 

Arnold smiled. This jealousy, while it threatened noth- 
ing, rather pleased him. It was an evidence of his power. 
The sound of sleigh-bells at a distance made Amy start 
from the arm which still held her. 

“ It is my father and mother,” she said. 

“ Yes ; but half a mile off yet. Don’t be frightened. 
They shall not find me here.” 

“ No, no. They would see in a minute how happy I am, 
and guess everything, — father is so smart. You must go 
away now. But — but ” 

“ Well, what are you stammering about ?” 

“ Nothing, — nothing ; only there is a meeting to-mor- 
row night.” 

“Well, I will come.” 

“ There is a revival now, and our people go all the 
time ; but then if you have company ” 

“Never mind that. I’ll manage to get here evenings. 
But remember, Amy, I must have no more distrust ; ana 
our secret must be kept. If a suspicion gets abroad, 1 
will never forgive you, — never see you again.” 

“ Indeed, I can promise now ; for did I not keep my 
word through all that terrible trouble ?” she said, cheer- 
fully. “ Oh, how near the bells are coming ! Here is 
your greatcoat. When you are so kind, it breaks my 
heart to have you leave me ; but oh, dear, they are 
turning the corner. Go out of the back-door. Good-by — 
good-by I” 

Now, there was no earthly reason why Amy should 


178 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


have been so frightened. Joshua Leonard had never 
uttered a word of objection to Arnold’s visits. Indeed, 
he was rather indignant when, for a time, they became so 
rare ; but some suspicion of the young man’s good faith 
had seized upon him, and he became watchful where he 
had before trusted. In this lay all that Amy could have 
feared in her father. Still she flushed red, and trembled 
as her parents drove up to the door-yard fence, hurried 
across the room to put the foot-stool in its place, and took 
great pains to move the splint-bottomed easy-chair some 
distance from the fire. 

When her mother came in, rosy from the frost, with a 
foot-stove in one hand, Amy busied herself at once in 
taking out the little, square pan, from which she emptied 
a quantity of dead embers into the fire ; then she helped 
untie her mother’s hood, and unfastened her cloak, from 
which she sho^k particles of snow with a lively zeal that 
charmed the good woman, — it was in such cheerful contrast 
with the lassitude which had possessed her daughter so long. 

When Joshua Leonard came in from putting away his 
horse, he found a pitcher of hot flip creaming over on the 
hearth, and a tray of doughnuts toasting by its side ; 
while his daughter stood before the fire, flushed and 
heated, shading her cheek with one hand, and looking more 
beautiful than he had ever seen her before. 

“ Ah, this is snug and comfortable,” he said, drawing 
the splint-bottomed chair on to the hearth. “ Trust our 
Amy for taking care of her father and mother. What, 
nobody been here ? That’s right. Had a good time all by 
yourself, Amy ?” 

Amy did not seem to hear, but thrust the heavy tongs 
among the hickory logs, which sent a storm of sparks up 
the chimney, and a glow over the whole room. 


REVIVALS AND REPENTANCE. 179 

“ It must be very cold out-of-doors,” she said, turning 
into the next room to hang up her mother’s cloak. 

“Yes,” answered Joshua, setting down the pitcher, 
which was now more than half empty. “ Yes, darter, it 
is cold to the outer man, but we felt nothing of it in the 
meeting ; for there the Lord was around and about us. 
Such a season, of divine grace I have never witnessed, — 
nev'er in my whole life.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Leonard, taking the subject from her 
husband’s lips. “ It was a refreshing time, Amy. Such 
prayers, such gifts, and breaking out all at once, showed 
that the power of the Lord was over us. Six new con- 
verts ready to break out into hallelujahs, seven struck 
with conviction, and on the anxious-seat together, — and 
who do you think was among ’em, Amy ?” 

“I cannot guess, mother.” 

“'You couldn’t guess in a week of Sundays, — a-crying 
like a child, and looking so broken-down, shaking on the 
seat as if he couldn’t, believe that there was any hope for 
a backslider ; — and it’s my opinion that there isn’t, though 
your father thinks otherwise, which is his right, you know ; 
— but such a prayer as your father made after the new con- 
vert came, staggering right up to the throne of grace out 
of the depths of iniquity, — such a prayer ! It laid right 
hold of the horns of the altar, and made every heart 
around tremble. Oh, Amy, your father has a gift of 
prayer that makes me think about the angels that come 
under one’s roof unawares. What if we had been waiting 
on one all our lives, thinking it was only a common man 
tending a saw-mill ?” 

“ My dear, dear father. Yes, I do know how good he 
is,” said Amy, stealing behind Leonard’s chair. 

“You are right, Amy Leonard,” chimed in the good 


180 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Woman. “Look at him sitting up so straight in your 
grandfather’s chair. You wouldn’t believe it was in him ; 
neither should I. But if ever there was a babe of grace, — 
there now, don’t hold up both your hands, Joshua, as if 
it was to say that you ain’t nothing particular, ’cause you 
are. Don’t shake your head, for I won’t stop, because 
here it’s my privilege. If women folks must keep silent 
in meeting, which I don’t see the reason of, — do you, 
Amy ? — they ain’t to be kept still in their own homes, by 
no manner of means ; and if one has got a born angel all 
for her own property, why shouldn’t she say so, and praise 
the Lord for it ? I’d be glad if somebody would tell me. 
Don’t talk in that way ? Why not, indeed ? I’m sure if 
the Lord has blessed you with such gifts, I should be a 
great sinner not to own up to it, and blind as a bat not 
to see it. Well, well, I’ll stop if you say so ; but as for 
the flip, if it wasn’t for setting you an example, I wouldn’t 
touch a drop, cold as it is. Creature comforts don’t seem 
natural after a meeting like that, though it was thought- 
ful — as a child should be to such a father — for Amy to 
remember and have it ready. Now, Joshua, take off your 
boots, for the snow is melting on ’em, and give your 
feet a good toasting before the fire. Amy, bring the foot- 
stool for your pa, and now — what was I talking about ? — 
dear me !” 

“ About the person who came up to the anxious-bench, 
mother ? You haven’t told me his name, yet,” said Amy, 
gently, for she was too well accustomed to her mother’s 
habit of conversation to get out of patience with it. 

“No more I have ; and you won’t believe it when I tell 
you. Who would ? Such a change ! His beard all 
shaved smooth, his shirt-bosom and collar clean as your 
father’s. I declare it made me a’most burst out a-crying, 


REVIVALS AND REPENTANCE. 181 


just to see him, with his wild eyes and his thin hair, get- 
ting gray so fast. But your father’s prayer helped him 
right on his feet ; and when the brethren all said ‘ Amen,’ 
— -they couldn’t help it, you know, — his face was lifted up 
to heaven, and it trembled all over, till at last he said 
1 Amen,’ too, but it was in a whisper, and great big tears 
came rolling down his cheeks like drops after a thunder 
breaks. I only wish Mrs. Arnold had been there !” 

“ Oh, mother ! what does this mean ? What can Mrs. 
Arnold have to do with this ?” cried Amy, going close to 
her mother, and speaking with great eagerness. 

“ Mrs. Arnold ! Oh, yes ! I forgot to tell you it was 
her husband — Benedict’s father — who came to the anxious- 
bench. Didn’t you understand that ? I wish you could 
a-seen our deacon when the poor backslider came in. I 
wish young Ben had been there, instead of running about 
with that French girl, which I’m sure he does.” 

“ No, mother, no. I am sure he does not care in the 
least for her, only as a visitor. I’ll tell you something. 
The young French gentleman, her brother, you know, is 
paying attention to Hannah Arnold, and that’s what keeps 
them all at the farm so long. ” 

“ How did you find that out ?” demanded the mother, 
quickly. 

“A little bird told me, mother,” replied Amy, blushing, 
and casting a playful look into her mother’s face. 

“ Oh !” ejaculated the mother, shaking her head at the 
fire, and casting a side glance at Leonard, who had fallen 
into thoughtfulness, and paid no attention to what was 
said ; for when his wife started off with a rush of lan- 
guage, he generally took refuge in reflection, soothed by 
the soft patter of her words as if they had been rain-drops 
on a roof. “ Who told you that, Amy ?” 


182 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ He did, mother. ” 

“ Well, didn’t I say so all the time ? but you wouldn’t 
believe me. No, no ; just as if I couldn’t see into a mill- 
stone just as far as anybody. Come now, pa, supposing 
we rake up the fire and go to bed ? I wonder if Mrs. 
Arnold knows what her husband has been about ? I de- 
clare, Amy, if a backslider ever can get into the fold, your 
father has lifted that poor sheep half over the wall. Don’t 
you think so, Joshua ?” 

“ What were you saying, wife ?” replied Leonard, tak- 
ing up the great fire-shovel. 

“ There now, did you ever !” cried the mother, appealing 
to Amy, with both her hands uplifted. “ Why, pa, I was 
talking about neighbor Arnold.” 

“ Yes, yes : God be with him !” 

“ And about your prayer.” 

“ Don’t speak of that. Prayers should not be talked 
about.” 

“ And why not, as well as sermons ?” 

“ Because, if good for any thing, they rise to God, and 
ought to be left there.” 

“ See !” whispered the mother, leaning toward Amy. 
“ Look in his face, and remember what I said about angels 
unawares.” 

Amy did look in her father’s face. Its rough features 
were in a glow of thankfulness ; no lake ever received the 
sunshine more genially than that face reflected the pious 
ardor of his soul. Every look seemed to thank God that 
a human soul was on its way to salvation. 

“ Oh, father, is it possible ? Will he have the strength 
to break off that terrible habit ?” she said. 

11 Ask God to give him strength, my darter.” 

“ I — I ?” murmured Amy, shrinking back with a look 


THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER. 183 


of affright, for she remembered how she had deceived her 
parents, and all the sinfulness of her conduct rushed upon 
her with a violence that made her faint. 

Leonard was shoveling ashes over the fire, and the room 
grew dark. He did,not remark her dismay, and she crept 
to her bed without a word, too happy for sorrow, and yet 
with a cloud upon her heart. Alas ! this human love, — 
how it stands between the soul and its God ! 


CHAPTER XYI. 

THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER. 

Arnold was a self-sufficient egotist, and considered his 
own will, in every case, the higher law. He possessed in- 
tense pride, but of that rude sort which is distinguished by 
an entire absence of sensitiveness or delicacy. Nay, I have 
given his ruling passion the wrong term : it was arrogance, 
which takes its root in vanity, not that laudable pride 
which springs from self-esteem. This young man did not 
even desire to. respect himself : his intellect was too sharp 
for that species of self-deception. It was enough for him 
that others recognized his pretensions, nnd yielded to the 
force of character which rushed headlong on the right o 
wrong with equal impetuosity. But one little grain of 
pure love can for a time soften the hardest nature ; and, 
in a character like this, many fine traits are sure to be 
found, rendering the evil that predominates still more dan- 
gerous. 

That evening Arnold’s better nature had been upper- 


184 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


most. He had put the young French girl and her unas- 
certained wealth into the background, and Amy stole 
like an angel of light into his heart, calling forth every 
gentle feeling of which it was capable. 

He had gone to the cabin with systematic caution, in- 
tending to conciliate the poor girl and re-establish his in- 
fluence over her entirely ; for he began to dread the result 
if her sensitive nature was outraged beyond its strength. 
So far his plans, and even wishes, were all afloat. Men 
can be fastidious without one particle of true delicacy; 
and even a refined nature may, and will, sometimes, recoil 
from the love which is too evident in a woman. 

Had one doubt assailed Arnold of Laura’s devotion to 
himself, he would have been restless and eager for a con- 
quest so flattering to his vanity; but that warm and noble 
heart had betrayed itself too early for him to feel his tri- 
umph in all its zest. In fact, he had already made it 
a matter of calculation. How much power, how much 
wealth, how much of position could this love secure to 
him ? These were the questions. He did not hesitate at 
the most cruel social treason that man is guilty of, — but 
the reward, that must be certain and substantial. 

It was difficult to obtain an account of the true position 
which Paul and his sister occupied. The letters of intro- 
duction, with which they were abundantly furnished, spoke 
of them generally as persons occupying an honorable place 
hi society, of good family, and possessed of wealth. But 
the exact amount, and how much belonged exclusively to 
the sister, was the doubt which kept him in suspense. 
But there was plenty of time. The girl loved him, and 
Arnold was a man who knew how to wait. 

But it was necessary to conciliate and control Amy 
Leonard. She had been /urged too far. If once satisfied 


THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER. 185 

of his indifference, she might appeal to her father for help, 
notwithstanding her solemn promise of secrecy. While 
in doubt of Laura’s attachment, he had been imprudently 
reckless regarding Amy ; but now that his restless vanity 
was appeased in that quarter, this must be remedied. 
With this object he had visited Amy again ; but the man 
was not all evil, and the love which had been a part of 
his boyhood rose through his selfish nature like incense in 
a prison. For the time he put all ambitious projects aside, 
it was both his policy and his pleasure to meet that 
affectionate nature half-way. Besides, there was some- 
thing of mystery and daring in the affair, which seemed 
like an adventure. 

As Arnold rode home, the sweet figure of Amy Leon- 
ard kept with him. Deep feeling had rendered her some- 
thing more than the lovely child he had been weak 
enough to marry. That which was timidity once, had 
now mellowed down to deep and delicate tenderness. The 
gentle reticence of her character had a peculiar charm 
when contrasted with the energy and almost reckless 
frankness of Laura’s. He was drawing these contrasts, 
and thinking over the scene through which he had just 
passed, on his way home. 

The snow was thickly trampled along his way, and 
muffled the steps of his horse, so that the stillness made 
his reverie like a dream, and his horse took a wrong turn, 
leading him towards Norwich. All at once he became 
conscious of a figure walking before him in the darkness, 
and, checking his horse, he waited for it to come up ; for 
he was not quite sure of his position. 

“ Halloo, friend !” he said. “ Can you tell me which way 
I am going. My head is completely turned. Do these 
lights come from Norwich ?” 


186 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Benedict, is it you ?” answered a kindly voice, “ and 
asking that question ? What ! lost in the old town, my 
boy ?” 

“What, father!” exclaimed the young man, drawing in 
his horse sharply. “ Coming home as usual ?” 

“ No, not as usual, Benedict. I haven’t been to the 
old place since that night. God forgive me that I ever 
went there. God forgive us all.” 

“ But you have been out every night. I have hardly 
h^id a chance to speak a word with you since.” 

“ Don’t speak of it again, Benedict. I can’t bear it. 
God help me, I’m trying to forget what you said ; but 
such words burn into the brain. You might as well try 
to rub out a scar. It is God’s mercy they didn’t draw me 
back again.” 

“ Back where ?” 

“ To the tavern, — to the tavern !” 

“ And if you haven’t been to the tavern, what takes you 
out so late at night, I should like to know ?” 

“ I have been to meeting every night since then,” an- 
swered the old man, meekly. “Every night.” 

“ To prayer-meeting ?” cried the young man, drawing 
up his horse with a jerk which made him run backward. 
“ To prayer-meeting ?” 

“Every night, — every night. At first, I crept in when 
they were all on their knees, and hid in corners ; but some 
of the brothers saw me, and would make me come in 
among the rest, so I did ; and to-night ” 

“ Well, what folly did you commit to-night, sir ?” 

“ To-night I knelt down before them all, and asked my 
old neighbors to pray for me.” 

“ You did !” 

“ Yes ; it was all I could do ; for the Evil One had been 


THE UNNATURAL ENCOUNTER. 187 

struggling with me all day. Up to the very meeting- 
house steps he followed me with that awful thirst. The 
tavern was in sight, with the bar-room door open. Every 
breath I drew was parched ; but I shut my eyes close, 
and staggered into the meeting-house, and down upon my 
knees. Some one was praying, and, when the others 
joined in the ‘ Amen !’ I held both hands on my mouth 
to stifle the cry for something to drink that rose 
up from my breast, choking back the Amen, as I have 
heard that snakes strangle little innocent birds when they 
are attempting to fly.” 

The old man’s voice was broken, and full of tears. 
He shivered, and would have been struggling still, but for 
the exhaustion that had prostrated his strength. There 
was something so heart-broken and humble in his tones, 
that the hardest heart must have grown pitiful under 
them. 

But Arnold had found in this painful confession a source 
of uneasiness far greater than lay in any degree of intem- 
perance that his father could have reached. He knew 
well how near true brotherhood approaches to actual con- 
fession of sins and short-comings. Better a thousand times 
drunkenness than this dangerous repentance ! 

“ And so you have changed folly for treason, old man,” 
he said, with a degree of sternness that was almost savage. 
“ In one way or another you are determined to ruin or 
disgrace the family !” 

“ No, no ! Not the family !” 

“Well, your son, then, — your only son. I suppose that 
these sanctified people will sweep out every thought of 
your life for them to pray over and denounce. They would 
consider it a duty to drag every foible or mistake of youi 
family through the open church.” 


188 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I will confess every 
thing to God ; but, as for the rest, Benedict, I would 
rather die and be lost forever and ever than see a hair of 
your head harmed. I would, boy, just as sure as I live. 
So don’t be afraid.” 

“ Afraid !” repeated Arnold, with a sneer. “Did you 
ever see any thing like cowardice in your son, old man ?” 

“ Dear, no ! You were always brave as a lion. I’ve 
seen you strike at your mother when she wanted to put 
you in the cradle. We thought it very funny when your 
little fist wasn’t bigger than a walnut ; but now it’s ter- 
rible to see it as you clenched it the other night !” 

“ And as I will again, old man, if that infernal subject 
ever comes up.” 

“ It must, once more,” said the old man, meekly. 

“ Never, sir, unless you wish me to forget that you are 
my father. I tell you it was the dream of a drunkard.” 

“ No, Benedict, no ! I did not drink then !” 

“I tell you, sir, it was nothing else !” cried the young 
man, through his shut teeth. “ Do not attempt to torture 
such nightmare visions into facts. For your own sake, 
for my mother’s sake, I warn you.” 

“ Oh, Benedict, how I wish you could make me believe 
this ! but I can’t, — I can’t !” 

“You had better, sir, or this new religious fit will end 
in mischief.” 

“ No, Benedict, it will end in death. This thing has 
been gnawing at my heart ever since. It will only die 
when your father does.” 

“ Drive it away then. I tell you it is all a lie.” 

“ Oh, don’t ! — don’t, my son. It makes me tremble to 
hear you. Remember, though you and I are all alone, 
God hears us, and he knows all.” 


OUT I N THE SNOW. 189 

“ Then he knows you are crazy with drink, and have 
been for years.’ 7 

The old man groaned heavily, and, drawing close to 
the horse, seemed about to press some other argument on 
his son ; but Arnold backed his horse, wheeled him 
fiercely, and dashed away, leaving the heart-broken father 
standing in the snow. With his dull eyes, bloodshot with 
thirst rather than drink, following his wild flight towards 
home, the old man fell on his knees in the beaten snow. 

“ Oh, my God ! my God ! what can I do !” he sobbed, 
lifting his clasped hands to heaven, in a passion of 
entreaty. “ Look upon me, 0 Lord ! for I am a miser- 
able old man, — broken down, helpless, trying to be good, 
and yet thirsting for my old sin. Help me ! help me ! or 
I shall go back, now, now ; for where else is there a place 
for me on earth ?” 

He looked vaguely around, as if expecting some answer ; 
but the far-off beat of those retreating hoofs was all the 
sound he heard. He looked upward. A single star would 
have given him light, and perhaps hope, but the sky was 
drifted over with clouds, and all was dark. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

OUT IN THE SNOW. 

The stricken man arose, wearily, and turned his face 
towards the town. How could he go home, with that 
fierce son ready to receive him with bitterness and re- 
proach ? How meet the wistful look of his wife, which 


190 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

had questioned him so often but never upbraided him ? 
These things had not troubled him much when his brain 
was misty with drink ; but, now that his thoughts were 
unnaturally keen, and his conscience awake, he had no 
courage to go home. Nay, such had been the effect of 
his son’s sneer, that he began to shrink from the impulses 
of religion which had led him to the meeting that night. 
True enough he was only an old broken down drunkard. 
What business had he to hope any thing from prayer ? 
Had not the Almighty drawn a vail of clouds across the 
sky that he might know that his term of grace had passed 
away forever ? 

He stood, hopelessly thinking over these painful fancies, 
with his hands loosely locked and hanging down, like a 
child waiting to be led away. Then he lifted his face 
slowly, and looked towards the town. A single light shone 
from its terraces of snow, — a reddish, evil-looking light, 
that burned later than any other in Norwich. As a wild 
beast grows frantic at the sight of blood, the old man felt 
the influence of the fatal gleam. A fiercer thirst seized 
upon him. His brain began to burn with feverish desire ; 
great drops of perspiration trembled on his forehead, not- 
withstanding a sharp wind turned them cold as they rose. 
Eager and famished, forgetting God and man, he turned 
upon the track that was leading him home. Keen desire 
gave him vigor : he walked heavily along the highway, 
muttering to himself like a lunatic that had escaped his 
keepers. 

The light grew broader and more lurid. Like the eye 
of a fiend, it blinked and blazed, and lured him on. The 
frozen breath melted on the fever of his lips, and his chest 
heaved with wolfish appetite. 

He had reached the slopes of the town. The tavern 


OUT IN THE SHOW. 


191 


stood on one of the numerous ridges of the hills, sheltered 
by an old willow-tree. The rusty hinges of a sign creaked 
on one of the lower branches, and the naked houghs whis- 
pered drearily, welcoming the old man back with dismal 
sighs. 

A great fire blazed through the bar-room windows, and 
he already saw the shadows of his old friends moving 
against the glass. 

“ They will be glad to see me, at any rate,” he said, rub- 
bing his hands eagerly. “ I wonder who will treat when 
they get me back from — from — oh, my God ! from the 
meeting.” 

That instant a light hand was laid on his shoulder, and 
a low voice, full of kindness, made him turn. It was his 
wife, the home-angel, whom a pitying Saviour had sent 
to bring the old man back. 

They stood together in the light which streamed from 
the bar-room windows. The riot of many voices came 
coarsely toward them. The sign shrieked overhead as if 
it were a fiend, to whom the presence of a creature so pure 
gave terrible pain. Her delicate face was bright with the 
frost, and softened with compassion. There was some- 
thing of the old girlish look in her eyes, so earnest and full 
of love ; something, too, in the dress ; for she had wrapped 
herself in Hannah’s scarlet cloak, and the hood looked 
richly warm around her forehead and against her cheek. 

u Anna !” he said, tenderly, “ Anna !” 

“Yes, husband, I am here. Don’t think it strange. But 
this is your birthday ; so I sat up waiting. Hagar would 
make some coffee against you came home. It was so hot 
and nice I got impatient, and came out to meet you ; for 
Hagar don’t like her good things to go to waste.” 

" Poor Anna ! And so you came all this way ?” 


192 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Oh, it’s nothing, Ben. You have walked farther than 
this after me many a time, besides climbing the hills when 
you got here.” 

“ Ah, that’s when we were courting, Anna, and the road 
seemed short !” 

“But the love which made it short hasn’t changed, 
though we are getting old, Ben. Come, put your arm 
around me as you did in those old times, and let’s go 
home. It is cold here. Ah, now I am warmer ! This is 
comfortable. See how clear the road shines since the 
clouds went off. It looked likely to snow when I came 
out ; now the stars are bright as diamonds, and the whole 
road shines like silver.” 

The old man lifted his eyes, and a thousand stars smiled 
down upon him, brighter and more pure by far than the 
red glare which had beckoned him through the tavern 
windows. His look fell slowly to the face of his wife. 
She had nestled close to his side, and, clinging to his arm, 
pointed down the path of snow as it wound off homeward 
under the smiling heavens. 

“ That is our way,” she said, softly. “ You must find it 
now, for I am tired of looking down.” 

Her cloak fluttered open with the wind. He folded it 
tenderly around her, and held it in place with his arm. 
Her heart swelled. She remembered the old times, when 
that was the fashion in which they had often walked to- 
gether when alone under the stars. 

After all, the power of good is stronger than that of evil, 
— and oh, how much more beautiful ! This gentle woman, 
who possessed scarcely more than the strength of a child, 
had won her husband from a terrible temptation with a 
few loving words, uttered with tact as well as tender- 
ness. The thirst of a tyrant habit, and the anguish of 


OUT I N THE SNOW. 


193 


a great trouble, were both forgotten under her sweet 
allurements. 

“ And do you know where I have been this evening ?” 

“No. I met Benedict; but he was riding fast and did 
not see who it was, I think. ” 

“ Oh, you met him, — our son ?” 

“ Yes, husband, our first-born,” she said, tenderly 

“How we used to love the child! You remember, 
Anna ?” 

“ Used to love him ! How we do love him ! Who 
could help it, — he is so brave and strong ? I feel like a 
child by his side.” 

“ And so you are, Anna. ” 

“ Like a child that has a little fear mixed with its love. 
Do you know, husband, I am always afraid of doing some- 
thing that he does not like. And so is Hannah, 1 am 
sure. But then he is so perfect.” 

“ Anna, would it kill you if he were not ? If he had 
faults — if ” 

“ Ah, husband, we all have faults ! What a terrible 
thing if we ceased to love one another because of 
that !” 

“ Yes, I know how good you are, — how much you can 
forgive. You need not tell me so. I feel it here.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t mean that ; but then it is so pleasant to 
be walking with you in this way, and chatting about the 
children ! Of course, Benedict has faults ; but what of 
that. You and I mustn’t see them, you know.” 

“Yes, it is possible to forgive faults, even such as mine 
have been, because, perhaps, you think it a duty.” 

The little woman shook her head, and muttered, 

“ No, no. She had nothing to forgive. He had come 

home with her pleasantly, and that was enough of happi- 
12 


19 i THE REJECTED WIFE. 

ness for one night Indeed, she loved him dearly, and al- 
ways should, no matter what came or went.” 

But he clung to the first idea with a tenacity that 
surprised her. “ Could she forgive a crime in one she 
loved, — a great crime, for instance, such as murder, or — 
or — well, there was no worse crime than that ? Could she 
forgive murder in her husband or her son, — of course he 
meant nothing serious ; but could she ?” 

“ Yes; she could forgive even that, and — and ” 

The husband drew a deep breath; but, noticing her hes- 
itation, he questioned her again. 

“ And what, Anna ?” 

“ And die !” she answered, in a solemn whisper. 

His face clouded again, and they walked on some mo- 
ments without speaking. Then he broke away from the 
subject altogether, and told her where he had been that 
evening, and of his interview with Leonard at “ the 
falls.” 

He felt her arm steal around him from under her cloak 
as he went on, and when he looked down into her face the 
tears were falling over it. 

“ I knew it would come before the end,” she said. “ From 
the glow at my heart these few days back I felt that it was 
near.” 

When he told her of his great temptation, and of the 
weakness which had followed it, she began to sob and 
murmur words of meek thankfulness that she had gone 
forth as the wish arose. It was like an interposition of 
heaven, she said ; and the reward was that long, happy 
walk, so unlike any thing they had known for years. 

The husband sighed drearily. There was a heaviness 
at his heart which she must never know, or she might 
“ forgive and die.” He did not mention having met his 


OFT IN THE SNOW. 


195 


eon that night ; and she, sweet soul, was quite unconscious 
that bitter strife lay between them. 

They reached home at length, and found Hagar sitting- 
up in the kitchen, with two old-fashioned china cups and 
saucers set out on a round stand, where a snow-white 
cloth had been spread. She had been impatiently snuff- 
ing the candle, and making herself uncomfortable for more 
than an hour, and was ready to give her master and mis- 
tress a piece of her mind which would mean something 
when they came in. 

But when Mrs. Arnold appeared, muffled in her red 
cloak, from which she shook the frost with a smile, the 
house-slave relented, and, instead of expressing her mind, 
according to promise, she helped Mr. Arnold off with his 
great-coat, giving him an approving glance, as she hung 
it up ; and, uncovering a dish in one corner of the fire- 
place, revealed the plump bosoms of a pair of quails that 
lay snugly nestled there. Then she took a coffee-pot, 
with a conical top, from the other corner, and began to 
pour the contents out, — “ good and strong,” as she said, 
while the master and mistress sat down to enjoy a supper 
which tfie sharp air and a long walk had rendered doubly 
acceptable. 

“ Where is our son ?” inquired Mrs. Arnold, as she drew 
her seat to the table, and began to carve the quails. “ Go 
call him, Hagar. The girls are in bed long ago, but he 
must be up yet.” 

Hagar drew herself up, looking very like a black bantam 
when its mate is disturbed, and observed, in her choicest 
language, that “ Mr. Ben had turned up his nose at her 
invitation to wait till his parents came in, and went up- 
stairs, stamping with his boots like a trooper, without so 
much as saying, 1 No, thank you, — a piece of business that 


196 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


she was sartin Dan would a made a touse about, if he 
hadn’t been in the barn shelling corn, and consecantly 
hadn’t known nothing about it. She hadn’t a doubt but 
young Mass’ Arnold was a-bed and asleep, and she didn’t 
want to disturb no gemman’s depose, — not she.” 

“ Never mind, I will go myself, Hagar,” said Mrs. 
Arnold. “ Just bring another cup and saucer.” 

With these words she stole away up-stairs, smiling 
back upon her husband, — whom she considered doubly her 
property since the night’s rescue, — and hoping that Benedict 
would be in a condition to come down and share her hap- 
piness, not to speak of a little feminine triumph that 
broke up from the depths of her innocent heart at the 
conquest which she had achieved over the Evil One. 

She stole softly into her son’s room. His candle was 
out, but she could see by the starlight reflected over 
the snow that he was in bed, with his face turned to the 
wall. She bent over him, holding her breath ; but, when 
he did not move, she pressed a kiss, light as a roseleaf, 
on his forehead, tucked up the blue and white counter- 
pane with a sigh of content, and stole away. 

She was followed by his glittering eyes ; for he had 
turned his head to look after her with a touch of remorse. 
What if his father should confide in her ? By what hor- 
rible mismanagement was the old man let into his secret ? 
This was a source of continual anxiety which made him 
almost hate his father, and quite fear his mother ; for he 
would have died rather than that good woman should 
know him as he was. When she left that kiss on his 
forehead, and tucked up his bed in the old-fashioned way, 
he felt the tears steal to his eyes, and murmured some- 
thing which betrayed the tender regrets that her gentle- 
ness and loving faith awoke in his heart. 


OUT IN THE SNOW. 197 

“Mother !” he said, calling her. 

She came back and sat down on the side of the bed, glad 
to hear his voice. “ Well, my son !” 

“ Did you wish to speak with me about any thing ?” 

“ Yes, Benedict. I wanted to tell you how happy I 
am, — how good the Lord has been. Oh, my son, I shall 
never have the sorrow of seeing you condemn father again. 
He has come back to his old self, and this is his birth- 
day.” 

“ Mother !” said the young man, quickly, “ did you ever 
know my father break a promise ?” 

“ Break a promise ? No, indeed. They could never 
kill his good principles so far as that.” 

“ And you think he loves me ?” 

“ Think he loves you, — you, his only son ! What a 
question ! Better than his life, Pm sure.” 

“ I suppose it’s a wild sort of question, but I have had 
little knowledge of him these late years.” 

“No. He has not been quite himself; but that is all 
over now. He is a changed man, — no, not a changed 
man, but his old self again. We shall live to be proud of 
him yet, Benedict. That is what I came up for. I want 
you to forget what you saw in that room when he was 
asleep there. I thought it was my duty to let you know 
every thing then : but, since, what I did has troubled me 
dreadfully. It was wrong to betray my husband’s fault ; 
my cheek grows hot when I think of it. I will beg his 
pardon before we go to sleep this night. If you hadn’t 
been in bed I’d a done it before you both ; but somehow 
I cannot forgive myself.” 

Arnold had not been listening to this womanly speech : 
deeper and darker thoughts occupied him. At last he said, 
very abruptly, 


193 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Mother, send him up here before he goes to bed. My 
father, I mean. ,, 

“ Yes, my son ; but speak kindly to him, — of course 
you will, though. ” 

“ Yes, mother, I will. That is the best way, you think, 
to control, — to influence him ?” 

“ Oh, yes, — only be respectful and good-natured. Now, 
Til go down and pour out his coffee. ” 

The mother hastened down-stairs and settled herself 
by the little table ; while her husband, with childlike 
delight, drained the strong coffee in his cup, and talked 
pleasantly with Hagar, who, woman-like, gave out stray 
enticements for the praise which her fine cooking had so 
well deserved. 

With the craving appetite and the weary soul both 
appeased, Mr. Arnold began to feel once more as the 
master of his own house. There was an atmosphere of 
respect about him which awoke all the dignity that had 
been so nearly dead in his nature. 

When the supper was over, and Hagar began to 
mutter about raking up the fire, Mrs. Arnold told her 
husband that Benedict was awake, and wanted to see him 
before he went to bed. 

The old man turned pale at this, and began to tremble ; 
but he strode up-stairs, heavily, and went into his son’s 
room. 

From that night Arnold ceased to sneer at or revile his 
father ; on the contrary, his demeanor became more than 
respectful. Not servile — that to his nature was impossible, 
— but he was at all times on the alert to help or defend his 
father. Yet there was a sort of reserve between them all the 
time. In this world, a secret which gives one man power 
over another always brings with it the curse of alienation. 


THE guest’s return, 199 

A week after this Arnold and his guests were ready to 
go away. The visit had been both pleasant and eventful 
to the young people ; but love, which is strong in most 
cases, cannot control time or circumstance : so, with many 
a regretful sigh, the party broke up. 

That night Arnold managed to see Amy alone. She 
was very sad, — this unacknowledged wife, — and the young 
man was himself greatly depressed. They had been talk- 
ing earnestly. The loving eloquence was still in her eyes, 
and her lips quivered like those of a grieved infant. 

“ Oh, if you would only let me tell my father and 
mother I wouldn’t care !” she said, clinging to him, and 
pleading with her innocent eyes so earnestly that even he 
was moved to kiss away the tears that trembled in them. 

“ Be still, child. To no living soul shall you breathe a 
secret of mine. I must have obedience or nothing. ” 

Amy drew a deep sob, and drooped into a submissive 
attitude. “ Well,” she said, — “ well, it is my duty. You 
are my husband. ” 

Arnold frowned and grew thoughtful. 

11 Are you offended with me, Benedict ?” whispered the 
young wife, leaning her arm softly on his shoulder. 

“ No, Amy ; but I feel unsafe. This promise is not 
enough. You mean to keep it, I know. But will you be 
strong enough ?” 

“I will, — I will ! Don’t look so black.” 

He looked up suddenly. “ You would keep an oath, I 
know.” 

She blanched white, and began to tremble. “ An oath, 
Benedict !” 

“ Yes. Come here, — put your two hands between mine. 
What on earth makes you so white ? There, kneel down. 
Well, well, stand up ; it makes no difference. Now swear 


200 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


before the God, who is our only witness, never to tell any 
living mortal that you and I are man and wife till I give 
you permission.” 

“ I — I ” She attempted to go on, but the words 

froze on her lips, and holding out her arms imploringly, 
she fainted. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 

New Haven is one of the most beautiful places on 
earth, even at the present day, when the green mountains 
are shorn of their forest-crowns, and cultivation has taken 
the place of picturesque loveliness. But it was wilder, 
more broken, and altogether more romantic before the 
Revolution. Then a few pleasant houses, with church- 
spires and the college-buildings, were to be seen through 
a bower of trees only. The country that lay between the 
sound and the steep foot of the green mountains was 
wild as a forest. Here and there patches of cultivation 
gleamed out from the shadows, and rustic dwellings sent 
their smoke up through the pines and hemlocks ; but the 
great features of the landscape were altogether at vari- 
ance with the scene which now presents itself. 

Two or three dwellings were nestled at the foot of East 
Rock, forming the germ of what was, in my first remem- 
brance, called Holchkisstown, and the precipitous cliff 
which still overhangs that village, seemed far less bold 
and forbidding, from the undergrowth and great trees that 
clothed it half-way up, and crowned it on the top with a 


WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 201 

noble forest that swayed and tossed to every passing 
wind. 

In one glance of the eye was combined the most lovely 
arcadian scenery, guarded by rugged mountains, and 
almost circled by a zone of sparkling waters, over which 
the white sails flew like doves in the northward and 
southward passage. 

A few rods down from the college-green, fronting on 
Chapel Street, stood a large, wooden building, with double 
verandahs and low, oaken doors. A huge elm swept the 
roof with its foliage, and from one of its great branches 
swung a weather-beaten sign, on which the British lion 
had raved and pawed his way upward for more than 
twenty years. 

In this house young Arnold made his home The bird- 
like ships we have spoken of, brought the merchandise 
which was fast enriching him from the West Indies ; and, 
far down on the “ long- wharf,” he had erected a stone 
warehouse of considerable pretension. In fact, of all the 
traders settled in that town, he was among the most daring 
and the most energetic. 

Beyond these evident proofs of prosperity, vague rumors 
had gone abroad of events that might cast into his power, 
at a single grasp, greater wealth and position than he 
could hope to obtain, even by a lifetime of the most suc- 
cessful enterprise. It was said that the bold, handsome 
person of this young man had won a heart which would 
bring almost fabulous wealth into his control. 

The beautiful young French girl, who had turned even 
wise heads with her grace and fascinations, — who had 
driven half the students of Yale College crazy with admi- 
ration of her black eyes and superb toilet, — had fallen 
under willing subjection to Benedict Arnold. During the 


202 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


winter she had generally been seen in his sleigh, enjoy- 
ing long drives along the coast, or by his side in the 
promenade, when her subdued and almost timid air of 
happiness gave force to the current rumor. 

If she went to a party, the joyous sparkle of her eyes 
was clouded till he appeared. In truth, though a proud 
and sensitive girl, she took no pains to conceal her love, — 
nay, her adoration, — for it amounted to that, which filled 
her being in his presence ; nay, she rather gloried in her 
devotion, and not only forgave his display of it, but seemed 
pleased that he should so openly claim her. 

Thus the winter passed. Paul had made one or two 
trips to Norwich, where his quiet and almost disregarded 
suit prospered with gentle Hannah Arnold. So he was in 
no haste to move farther from her presence, and rested 
content within reach of her home. 

Paul was a sensitive and over-refined man, — so deli- 
cate in his mental organization that he shrunk from 
interfering in the love affairs of his sister, and was, in 
truth, less informed of her real position than many a 
stranger who had made the lovers objects of attention 
Thus he never spoke of this evident attachment to Hannah 
Arnold, and she, sensitive and shy as himself, asked no 
questions. In fact it came about, no one knew how, that 
the whole subject was a forbidden one. Arnold had 
managed to convey this feeling so completely, without 
committing himself by words, that it was an idea rather 
“^than an understanding between himself and the lady. 

And were these two persons engaged ? Not in the 
usual acceptation of the term. From the time that Ar- 
nold left his home, the irresolution and amazing variability 
of spirit that had marked his conduct there, changed. In 
his attentions he was frank and ardent : imperious cer- 


WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 203 

tainly, — that was in his nature. Even self-interest could 
not change any thing in this respect ; but, as far as manner 
went, he was every thing that ardent and devoted young 
creature could desire. What was the need of words 
where two persons understood each other so well ? 

Up to the spring, Paul and his sister had lived at the 
game public house with Arnold, — that which fronted on 
Chapel Street, and was sheltered by the great elm-tree, 
with its sheltering foliage and creaking sign. But when the 
violets came out under the East Bock, and the hemlock- 
buds put forth their soft, golden green all along the moun- 
tains, Laura began to grow a little restive. The winter 
months had flown, and there she was, engaged in spirit, 
but not in word, exactly as she had been at the Christmas 
time. Even her generous faith began to waver a little 
now ; and when Paul, one day, suggested a desire to 
know something of her plans, that he might regulate his 
own by them, she flew into a girlish passion and burst 
into tears, protesting that she had no plans. How could 
she have and he not know them ? 

Paul heard this with a glow of indignation, for he be- 
lieved that Laura was trifling with him ; but when he 
saw that she was in earnest, and that no actual engage- 
ment existed between his sister and Arnold, all the iron 
in his nature rose to the surface ; and, taking his hat, ne 
went down to the wharf, for the first time in his life, and 
entered Arnold’s place of business. 

What passed between the two young men is of no 
moment here, save that the interview left Arnold in clear 
possession of all the information he had been constantly 
searching for regarding the amount of wealth with which 
Laura would be endowed on the day of her marriage, 
while Paul became more and more thoughtful as the con- 


204 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


versation proceeded ; for, with the keen intuition which 
is the blessing and curse of refined natures like his, he felt 
the selfishness of Arnold’s character, but was altogether 
too good for condemnation, where no positive proof ex- 
isted. Perhaps his own heart was a little at fault. In 
his love for the gentle sister, Paul was willing to believe 
himself unjust when a thought against one of her blood 
rose in his heart. 

All that afternoon Laura was in tears, with the quick 
transition so natural to an impulsive character. She had 
passed from a state of confidence to one of deep, deep de- 
pression. No, she was sure of it. Arnold had been 
amusing himself with her ; his vanity had been interested, 
nothing more. Paul was right. She had read this opinion 
clearly in his face. Arnold did not love her. She had 
been deceiving herself all the time. Paul knew it, — the 
whole world would know it. The very thought drove her 
wild. She walked to and fro in the room, restless and 
wretched. 

She flung herself on the high-backed sofa, and, shutting 
her eyes, tried to think steadily, while she listened for 
some footstep which would bring her news. The security 
in which she had been dwelling made her present state of 
turbulent doubt all the more painful. 

At last Paul came home, grave and sad. He said 
nothing of his interview with Arnold, and Laura only 
questioned him with her great, eager eyes, that grew 
heavy with dread when she saw no cheerfulness in his 
glance. 

“ Paul, brother Paul,” she said at last, holding out her 
hands. “ Have you nothing to tell me ?” 

Paul was touched by her pleading humility. He knelt 
down by the sofa, as a lover might have done, and took 


WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 205 


her head between his hands, laying his cheek against the 
heavy braids of her hair. 

“ Have patience, my sister, — only a little patience. In 
another day all this shall be settled.” 

“ Ah ! does he want time ?” faltered Laura, turning 
pale. “ Have you made a claim on his honor ? Oh, Paul ! 

“ I have to deal with his honor and ours,” said the young 
man, with decision. 

“ His honor ! And has it come to that ? His honor !” 

Her face began to burn like fire, and hot flushes ran down 
her hands and arms. 

“ Hush ! be quiet, Laura. There is nothing as yet to 
distress yourself about. He was not so frank as I could 
wish ; but that may be from embarrassment. The peculiar 
nature of our interview was enough to unsettle any man.” 

“ Embarrassment !” said Laura, brightening a little ; for 
her imagination had run so far ahead of the facts that 
Paul’s words gave an immediate sense of relief. “ Em- 
barrassment ! No, no ; he is never embarrassed. Nothing 
ever takes him unawares. His self-possession is regal. 
It is for this I — there, there, don’t look at me so anxiously 
— how foolish we have been — nothing has happened, after 
all. You have been to him with that darling, grave face, 
like a grand signor, and asked him serious questions, which 
are always awkward between men. He is proud as an 
emperor, — my Arnold, — and would not be forced into 
answers that aught only be whispered, you know, 
blush for our delicacy, Paul. It makes me shiver in all 
my nerves that you should have spoken to him, — offered 
your sister on compulsion, as it were.” 

I No ; I have not done that. Your delicacy is safe in 
my hands, Laura. I have made the way clear, if he loves 
fou, that is all.” 


# 


206 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ If he loves me, Paul ! And have you a doubt ?” cried 
the poor girl, turning white. 

“ God forbid !” faltered the young man, growing more 
and more distressed as he marked these evidences of the 
deep passion that possessed her. “ To-morrow, I hope, 
you will be satisfied that I need have no distrust on that 
point. There is no reason why he should not speak out 
now. Before this he may have hesitated to offer his small 
prosperity against your wealth, for he is very proud.” 

“ Oh, yes ; as he should be, — for who is his equal !” 

“ But that is all done away with. I have even sacri- 
ficed a little proper reserve to save this pride. Don’t look 
reproachful. I know how to protect your delicacy, sister. ” 
“ Ah, if I knew how to protect my own pride !” said 
Laura, turning her face impatiently on the sofa pillow. 
“ But with him it melts away like snow. Don’t trust me, 
Paul. I have no dignity left.” 

Paul shook his head, and regarded her with an anxious 
&mile, muttering to himself, 

“ Will any one ever love me so ?” 

Laura did not heed him ; for a clock which stood in a 
corner of the room rang out the hour from its heavy oaken 
case, and she was startled to find how late it was. Rising 
from the sofa, she glanced at her morning-dress of fine 
chintz, and, blushing like a naughty child, cried out, 

“ He will be here in a few minutes. See how I look ! 
Good-by, Paul, for a little time. To-morrow we will be 
happier.” • 

“ Yes,” muttered Paul, in a low voice ; “ happier or 
away from this place.” But his heart sank as he reflected 
how completely his own fate was involved in that of his 
sister. Henceforth he must be closely connected with Ar- 
nold, or his enemy. The enemy of Hannah’s brother 1 


WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 207 


He shrunk from the idea, and hoped, almost as passion- 
ately as Laura herself, that this, a position so painful every 
way, might be spared to him. 

Burdened with these thoughts, he had scarcely removed 
from his seat when Laura returned, with her red-heeled 
shoes pattering on the floor, and her dress of brocaded silk 
looped up with knots of green ribbon, over a quilted skirt 
of rose-colored satin, which was short enough to exhibit 
the embroidered clocks on each side her symmetrical an- 
kles. Fine old yellow lace floated around her arms and 
on her bosom. All the folds of her dress rustled as she 
moved, giving an idea of sumptuousness to her presence 
which accorded well with the taste of her lover. 

Paul smiled as the idea presented itself. Laura blushed 
under his gaze, and strove to throw off all embarrassment 
by a conscious laugh, which gave a charm to her singular 
beauty touchingly childlike. She seemed half ashamed 
of her rich toilet, — more than ashamed of the impulse that 
had induced her to put it on : all of which her brother read 
at a glance. He held out his hand. She came close to 
his side, flushing like a tea-rose. 

“ Am I very ugly, my brother ?” she said, pressing a 
pair of lips that glowed like ripe cherries on his forehead. 

He looked up to her face with a glance of tender admi 
ration. 

“ You are too lovely, — too good for ” 

She stopped his mouth with her hand, and looked seri- 
ously down into his eyes. 

“ Not that. Oh, don’t say that, Paul ! He is not gen- 
tle and good as you are. But who is worthy of him ? 

S ink how brave, how lordly and full of ambition he is. 
en remember, brother Paul, that he saved my life.” 

Still Paul looked grave. All her charming blandish- 

m 


208 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


ments could not win the suspicion from his heart. Laura 
saw this, and the impatient blood rushed to her forehead. 

“ At any rate he has one merit,” she said, with ma- 
licious playfulness. 

“ What is that, lady bird ?” 

“ He is Hannah Arnold’s brother.” 

She had her revenge ; the thrill that passed through his 
whole frame was proof enough of that. So her mouth 
curved and trembled with smiles as she triumphed over 
his confusion. 

“ Ah ! have I found you out, brother ? The love folly 
does not lie entirely on the female side of our house. 
Look up ! look up ! I cannot see your eyes for those 
long, black lashes ; besides, you are blushing, — upon my 
word and honor you are blushing like a girl.” 

“ It is at your folly, then.” 

“ Well, well, it is all in the family, you know ; so don’t 
be hard on Benedict, or I will retaliate and point out the 
faults of la petite soeur. ” 

“ Her faults ! She has none, the angel !” 

“ Oh ! ha ! So it has gone so far as that. Angel in 
deed ! The demure little mouse, with her smooth hair 
and soft step. A fine example of deceit you have been 
placing before an innocent sister, Monsieur Paul. I blush 
for your duplicity. ” 

“ Hush, Laura ! This is not a subject for jesting.” 

“ Jesting ! Upon my word I am delightfully in earn 
est. What a charming family party we shall make. Does 
Arnold know of it ?” 

“ There is nothing for him to know, — nothing but what 
your wild imagination invents.” 

“ Oh, brother !” 

You look incredulous ; but it is true.” ^ 



WILD HOPES AND DEEP WISHES. 209 

“ Then Hannah Arnold is nothing ! There is no love- 
history between you ! I don’t believe it.” 

“ I did not say so, — only that there was nothing to tell. 
When you speak of love and that sweet girl it should be 
with reverence and in a low voice, as we whisper our 
prayers. I have scarcely dared to breathe the word in 
her presence, and yet I worship her.” 

“ Ah, Paul, my dear, dear brother, then you can feel for 
me and have charity for him ! Perhaps, with all his brav- 
ery, he trembles at the thought of speaking out such feel- 
ings in language. It is like shaking the bright dew from 
one’s violets in the gathering. Don’t you think so, Paul ?” 

The young man looked at her glowing face, and his eyes 
filled with loving admiration. He felt all the beauty of 
her bright sayings. How true this one was to his inward 
thought ! What a clear, delicate mind the girl had, with 
all her waywardness and passion ! Surely the mate for a 
creature like that should be full of strength and honor. 
Was Arnold that man ? 

Again his heart misgave him, and* to conceal the depres- 
sion that came on with each vague doubt, he arose and 
left the room. 

Laura was glad to see him go. Every moment she ex- 
pected to hear Arnold’s step on the stairs. She knew that 
a crisis in her fate was approaching, and wished to be 
alone. The dreamy happiness in which she had been re- 
posing was broken up forever ; and she felt like a bird let 
loose in some dreary wilderness, doubtful of any place 
where its nest could be built. 

Laura grew impatient as the dusk stole on. Arnold’s 
hour for visiting her little parlor had passed, and the oaken 
clock went ticking on with harassing steadiness into the 
next hour. She walked to the window softly, as if there 

0 13 


210 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


existed some sin in the movement, and peered through the 
crimson curtains. The street was empty, or if any one 
passed it was some stranger, whom she hated for being 
the wrong person. Then she strove to walk off her im- 
patience, and paced up and down the room, passing and 
repassing a little mirror, out of which her face gleamed 
back and forth like that of a sybil, waiting, pale and trem- 
bling, for the inspiration for which she has watched and 
prayed. 

A hundred times that evening the young girl stopped 
to listen, holding her breath and turning white with keen 
expectation. Some noise at the door, — some foot-fall in 
the street, — had arrested her ; but the sound invariably 
passed away, leaving her like a statue : as cold, and almost 
as lifeless. 

Then the strife of hope recommenced, and the pain of 
renewed expectation smote her with fresh poignancy. Up 
and down before the mirror ; hating the clock for its 
methodical ticking, as a soulless thing that cruelly meas- 
ured her way to fresh disappointment ; listening with a 
<i*ifble sense, and with the cold tears standing on her 
cheek, she wandered through that lonesome evening, wait- 
ing for him in vain. 

When hope had almost left her, and she was chilled 
through with a feeling of desertion, the outside door 
opened, and she heard footsteps on the stairs. Again 
each breath came like a frightened thing from her heart, 
the heavy lustre of her eye kindled, and through her frame 
went the thrill of revived hope. It was his step ; surely it 
was his step. No, no. The imperious resonance was 
wanting. It was, — alas, it was Paul, coming to find her 
there alone, heart-broken, humbled to the dust ! 

She could not bear that ; but, with a wild sob, burst 

% 


IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 211 

from the room and hid herself, like a frightened deer, un- 
der the covert of drapery that fell over a couch where she 
was to find nothing but pain and unrest. No matter, she 
had secured darkness in which to hide herself, — profound 
silence which would receive her sobs without mocking 
them. That moment her humiliation seemed com- 
plete. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 

Where was Benedict Arnold all this time ? Was he 
indeed the recreant this sudden desertion seemed to pro- 
claim him ? 

Far in the depths of the forest that clothed the foot of 
East Rock and spread up to the verge of the town he had 
wandered ; not for solitude, nor in search of that quiet 
which leads to the enjoyment of happy feelings, but in 
search of a place where the evil thought which had fcr 
months been engendering in his heart could be worked 
out in safety. 

A narrow footpath ran along what is now a broad high- 
way, and curved down into the very heart of the forest, 
where a thick grove of pines made a pleasant twilight, 
even of the noonday sun. The path wandered on through 
entangled elms, beeches, and maples, up tc the very sum- 
mit of the mountain, and fitful gleams of moonlight fell 
upon it through the branches ; whi’Ie dogwood, wild 
honeysuckles, and budding grape-vines, perfumed the 


212 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


night air, and streamed over the path, like banners, 
through all its windings. 

Still Arnold sought the black heart of the forest, and 
stood under its densest pines, before he spoke a word of 
the thoughts that were consuming him to the companion 
who had accompanied him from the town. 

Rapidly, and in silence, he had threaded the narrow 
footpath, trampling down the soft woodmosses, and crush- 
ing the violets under his feet, as if a sens§ of destruction 
satisfied the fierce excitement that possessed him. Some- 
times he would push aside the flowering branches that fell 
across his path, with a burst of muttered wrath, dashing 
the lovely blossoms over the man who walked behind him, 
in a storm of unheeded sweetness. 

The recoiling branch struck this man in the face more 
than once, but he made no complaint, and only answered 
the half-sneering apology offered by Arnold with a vague 
smile, which gleamed like trouble on his face as a ray of 
moonlight fell athwart it through the trembling leaves. 

Thus, with but brief snatches of speech, the two men 
penetrated the woods, till they stood on a swelling undu- 
lation of land, which afforded a dreamy view of the country 
around. In this spot some of the trees had been cut away, 
preparatory to a clearing. The undergrowth in full blos- 
som, and trailing vines, tangled themselves overhead .with- 
out obstructing the view. The moonlight was full and 
bright, weaving its silver with the mists of the forest, and 
giving the clear, black outlines of the East and West 
Rocks with minute distinctness. The Sound lay below 
them, like a lake of sleeping mist. As they looked toward 
the mountains, the town lay to the right, far out of view 
or hearing, save that here and there a slender steeple shot 
into the sky against a background of burning stars. 


IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 213 

After standing for a moment on this swell of land, 
bathed in the moonlight, — the two men looking away from 
each other all the time, — they descended the slope which 
led into the deep forest, and walked very rapidly down to 
the centre of the pine woods, where the darkness was 
dense as midnight, and a thick carpet of dead leaves 
muffled their footsteps, as if they were treading on velvet. 

When the darkness was so thick that the very outlines 
of their persons were lost, Arnold paused, leaned against a 
tree for an instant, and then slid noiselessly down to the 
carpet of pine leaves, which were heavy and wet with rain 
that had fallen the day before, and in that deep shade had 
scarcely begun to exhale. Arnold pressed his hands down 
hard upon the mass of leaves, as if the moisture and cool- 
ness were pleasant to him. 

“ Sit down,” he said to the young man who stood in the 
darkness. “ Sit down, for I have a good deal to talk about, 
and you will get tired standing there like the steeple to a 
ruined church.” 

“ No ; the ground is wet ; I can feel the chill through 
my boots already. You had better stand up yourself, for 
it strikes me the air has made you hoarse. A cold may 
be serious at this time of the year.” 

“ I am not at all delicate,” said Arnold, sweeping a moist 
hand over his forehead, and dropping it to the earth again. 
“Besides, the air is close and hot here; my forehead is 
burning.” 

“ And yet, as I have said, there is a hoarseness in 
your voice I never heard there before. It seems un- 
natural, and chills me through and through.” 

“You are sensitive, — as sensitive as ever,” answered 
Arnold, with a sneer; “but that is a part of your pro- 
fession,” 


214 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The young man shuddered under this sneer. 

“ Come out of this darkness,” he said ; “ I do not like it.” 

“ I do,” was the rude reply ; “ but if you are afraid of the 
dark I will indulge you for once ; but remember, my dear 
Osborne, that whatever I desire to do, that do I. Spare 
me further argument or advice about any thing I may say 
or propose.” 

The minister’s pale cheek flushed a little at the insolent 
tone, but he made no reply : and the darkness concealed 
his agitation. 

“ I want to talk with you,” said Arnold. “ Sit down, 
if you please. I hate to see a man look so deucedly un- 
comfortable.” 

“ There is really no safe place to sit,” he answered. 

“ Oh, nonsense ! There’s a log lying in that gleam of 
moonlight. I don’t think that you will be injured.” 

Osborne seated himself upon the log, yielding, like all 
who came in contact with that singular man, to a will 
always exercised in the least as in the greatest things. 

“ What do you wish to say ?” asked the minister. 

Arnold did not answer. He lay gloomily watching the 
moonlight flicker through the branches, and listening to 
the solemn music of the pines, as if the sound troubled him. 

“ This is a pretty scene,” he said, laughing hoarsely. 
“ If either you or I were a poet, friend Osborne, we should 
find ample material here for a dozen sonnets.” 

The clergyman smiled, but with an effort. He knew 
Arnold well enough to suspect that there was something 
hidden beneath his forced playfulness, and he felt a deeper 
sense of anxiety than the uneasiness which that man’s 
presence usually brought upon him. 

“A few minutes ago,” continued Arnold, “I saw the 
spire of your church. Hid you remark it ?” 


IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 215 


The minister shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked 
uneasily at his friend. 

“ I did not look for it,” he said, in a troubled voice ; 
“the distance is so great.” 

“ My eyes are stronger than yours,” returned Arnold, 
with an unpleasant laugh. “It is a very pretty church. 
I have heard you preach many a fine sermon there.” 

The clergyman turned abruptly away : his hands 
twisted themselves round his walking-stick, and he felt a 
deathly pallor creeping over his face. 

“You are a great favorite with your congregation,” 
pursued his tormentor. ✓ 

“ I — I have tried to do my duty by them, at least,” he 
answered, with a strong effort. 

“ I have no doubt of it. And how the pretty girls do 
gather there ! I say, Osborne, what a quantity of lambs 
there are in your flock. Old Hurlburt has nothing but a 
lot of ugly sheep in his fold. What is the secret of your 
success ?” 

“ Mr. Arnold,” replied the minister, with considerable 
firmness, “yon have chosen a- sorry subject for a jest! 
Whatever my own faults have been, I have endeavored to 
preach God’s word to my hearers ! I scarcely dare pray 
to him for myself. But never towards one of my people 
have I been guilty of a wrong.” 

“ Really, you are very eloquent,” said Arnold. “ My 
dear fellow, what a strange person you are ! Don’t go off 
in heroics. I was only laughing at you. There is no reason 
for being angry.” 

“ I am not angry, Arnold.” 

“ That is well. I believe you consider me your friend, — 
do you not ? I hope so, at any rate, for I am about to 
test you.” 


216 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The clergyman stepped hastily back. 

“ Heaven help me !” he exclaimed. “ I don’t know, — 
I can’t tell 1” 

“ Upon my word,” returned Arnold, apparently more 
amused than offended by his companion’s words and man- 
ner, “ that is a charming remark ! You are more frank 
than usual.” 

“ You have helped me,” said the clergyman. “ Yes, you 
have done me a great kindness ; but was it not by you 
that I was led into the error that made this obligation 
necessary.” 

“ Have done, Osborne !” replied Arnold, coldly. “ Never 
blame another person for your own weakness. Have the 
courage to carry your sins upon your own shoulders, how- 
ever burdensome the load may be. I, at least, am brave 
enough for that.” 

“ I will, — I will ! I do not mean to exculpate myself, — 
I know that I am a weak, sinful wretch ” 

“ There you go again ! My dear friend, you are really 
too nervous and excitable.” 

“I am indeed, — I know it 1” 

“ Listen to me, Osborne.” 

“ What is it ?” he asked, drearily. 

“ I want you to do me a favor.” 

“ Anything that lies in my power you know I will do 
to serve you,” he replied, in the same dreary, pained tone. 

“ I think so. That is the reason I have made up my 
mind to ask it. You know I do not like refusals.” 

“You are not likely to get one from me.” 

“ I think not,” he said, musingly, yet with a sort of 
threat like an undertone pervading his speech : “I think 
not.” 

Osborne shivered. His hands shook so violently that 


IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 217 

his stick fell to the ground ; but he never moved his eyes 
from Arnold’s face, — it appeared impossible for him to do 
so, although it was evident that he suffered from the very 
effort of forcing his eyes to meet the piercing orbs that 
seemed to glare at him through the broken light. 

“ You are cold,” said Arnold. “ You are shivering.” 

“ Only a little, — very little.” 

“ You students are so tender. You ought to all live in 
hot-houses.” 

“ But what did you wish to ask of me, Arnold?” he 
inquired, with an anxiety that he tried in vain to conceal. 

“ Nothing of much consequence, — a mere trifle, in fact, 
according to my way of thinking.” 

“ Then it will not be difficult ?” 

“No, no. Don’t be afraid that I am going to make any 
great demand upon your friendship.” 

“ You know I did not mean that, Arnold, — you know I 
did not !” 

“Iam sure I can’t tell what you do mean.” 

“ I meant that I would gladly serve you,” said the poor 
man, shivering more violently ; “ but don’t, — don’t ask me 
to do any thing wrong. I can’t do that !” 

“Yours is a very tender conscience !” exclaimed Arnold, 
rising to his feet with a quick flash of passion, which 
the least breath of opposition always excited^in him. 
“I suppose you think it is enough to have your own 
shortcomings to reflect upon ” 

“ Have mercy, Arnold !” pleaded the clergyman. “ Don’t 
talk to me in that tone. I have suffered enough, — surely 
I have.” 

“ Then reserve your preaching for your pulpit. I wish 
none of it. Remember that, Osborne.” 

The clergyman made an appealing gesture, as if implor- 


218 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


ing the tyrannical man to spare him further insult. There 
was so much weakness in it that another would have had 
pity ; but Arnold did not even know the meaning of the 
word. 

“ You are coming to your senses,” he said. “ I am glad 
of it.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Osborne, shaking his head 
sadly. “ Sometimes it seems to me that I am losing 
them. It would be no wonder if I did, — no wonder.” 

“ Good Lord !” exclaimed Arnold, with a sharp laugh. 
“ To hear the fellow talk, one would think that he was 
Cain, the first murderer ! Are you certain that you are 
not the Wandering Jew ?” 

“ Don’t make a jest of me, Benedict. Have a little 
mercy !” 

“ There, there !” said Arnold, carelessly, as one might 
quiet a pet grayhound. “ Be quiet now, — be quiet !” 

“ Yes, yes ! And what did you wish, Ben ? The name 
sounds like old times, doesn’t it ?” 

It seemed as if the clergyman was trying to soften the 
stern man before him. He wished, perhaps, to call up 
some memory of their youth to restrain the wicked counsel 
which he felt to be in his heart. But there was nothing 
holy to Benedict Arnold, — no memory that he held sacred. 
To a man like that, what appeal was possible ? 

“ Do you remember that foolish business of mine about 
a year ago, — more perhaps ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Why, the time I came to you with that pretty girl,— 
you know there was some sort of a form ” 

“ Why, Arnold, I married you to that girl, — solemnly 
married you before the most high God. She was a sweet 
creature, and should have had a holy influence over you.” 


I N THE 4 DEPTHS of daekness. 219 

Arnold sprang toward him, clutched his arm in a fierce 
grasp, whispering : 

“ Repeat those words again, and before to-morrow noon 
you shall be an outcast, — not a roof to shelter, — not a 
friend to aid you.” 

Harvey Osborne sank back upon the log and groaned 
aloud. The depth of degradation to which he had fallen 
was terrible indeed. * 

“ What do you mean ?” he gasped. “ You try me too 
far, Arnold !” 

“ No matter ! That is what I mean. You did not marry 
me to that girl !” ^ 

“ The ceremony was sacred as any I ever performed 1” 
exclaimed Osborne, firmly. “ Before God and man, you 
are husband and wife.” 

“ Fool ! Do you wish to ruin yourself ?” 

“ I do not care ! Oh, I am tired of this load of sin, — 
this weight of concealment ! Betray me, — tell the whole 
world what a wretch I am. I don’t care, — I don’t care !” 

“ Bah ! If it came to the point you would see that it 
was not so pleasant. But I’ll do it, Osborne, — I will, 
by ” 

“ Stop !” said the minister. “ You shall not take God’s 
name sacrilegiously before me, unworthy as I am.” 

“ Nonsense ! But will you come to your senses and 
let me explain ?” 

u Yes, yes. Explain, — do !” 

“ I don’t ask any thing very terrible ! I have reasons 
for not wishing the circumstances known about that little 
affair ” 

“ But, Arnold, it was a marriage, — a real marriage ! 
Her name was Amy — yes, Amy Leonard. It is, now, 


220 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

Arnold. — It could not be broken or evaded. I am an 
ordained minister of the gospel. ” 

“ A pretty one, truly !” cried Arnold, roused to tiger- 
like fury. “A fine minister of the gospel are you, — a 
drunkard, — a scoundrel, — a gambler 1” 

“ Spare me, Ben, spare me !” 

“ Don’t hope it ! The whole world shall know your 
real character. I will denounce you in your own church. 
A pretty scandal it will make. Why, they’ll drive you 
out of the town. Ha, my young minister, what do you say 
now ?” 

“ Oh, my God !” groaned the wretched man, “ my God, 
have mercy on me ; for this man will show me none.” 

“ None 1” repeated Arnold. “ I shall tell your flock 
what a pastor they have. You went to a gambling-house 
in New York, in my company, remember. True, you 
had taken too much at supper before that, — a double 
crime. ” 

“But it was not my fault,” Osborne cried, goaded into 
self-defence. “I did not know that it was liquor you 
gave me. It drove me mad for the time, and you did 
what you chose with me.” 

“ No doubt, oh, no doubt ; but make people believe it, 
will you? Only try, that’s all. See here, Osborne. I 
have been a good friend, — I shall make a bitter enemy. 
You don’t know how I can hate. Avenge myself I will ! 
A little will not satisfy me. I shall follow you. Wher- 
ever you hide yourself I shall find you out. I will tell 
this story, blast your whole life, and make you the 
wretchedest criminal that ever trod the earth.” 

A groan was the only response he received. His 
agonized listener had no power to speak. 

“More than that: I will put you in prison. I hold 


IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS. 221 

your note for the money I advanced to settle your gaming 
debt. You can’t pay it. Nobody will do it for you. I 
will put you in the debtor’s jail before to-morrow night. 
Now, then, what do you say ?” 

“ Nothing will soften you ? nothing will change your 
fiendish purposes ?” 

“Yes, it is easily done. Only forget that marriage, as 
you call it ” 

“ I cannot lie ” 

“ What else is your whole life, you miserable fool ?” 

“ True, true ! Oh, surely I have suffered enough. Do 
not torture me further. Do not push me lower into this 
pit of infamy and guilt !” 

“ Why, you talk like a play-actor. Promise what I 
ask, and I will return you the note. You will be safe 
then.” 

The minister was silent. A great struggle was going 
on in his soul, and he was weak. 

“ It does no one any harm,” continued Arnold. “ The 
girl is safe enough. Some time I shall acknowledge her, 
but I cannot now. Promise, promise !” 

“ What ! tell me what ?” 

“ Never to reveal this marriage. Swear it !” 

“But if she comes to me herself?” 

“ Tell her she is mistaken ” 

“ And destroy my own soul ?” 

“ Let your soul take care of itself. Once more, — will 
you help me ?” 

“ I cannot tell a lie, — I will not.” 

“ But are you willing to assist me ?” 

“I must, — you know I must.” 

“ Then go away from here. Your health is poor, — you 
need change A ship will soon sail for the West Indies. 


222 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


If you will go in her, I will pay your passage and give 
you plenty of money besides. Your people will spare 
you for a little time if you plead to them with that pale 
face.” 

“ But what will become of this poor girl ?” 

“ I tell you she is safe enough. Think of yourself. I 
offer you safety or disgrace. Choose !” 

“ Oh, this is a temptation of the demon ! 

“ Think of it. Before to-morrow night you will be 
hooted at as you walk the streets, — mobbed, — insulted by 
the very boys you have taught.” 

“ You will drive me mad, Arnold !” 

“ Will you go away ? Do you promise ?” 

“ I do — I do !” 

He fell upon the ground, wringing his hands, and 
weeping like a child ; while Arnold stood over him with 
a fiendish smile. 

“ Promise by your hope of salvation that you will go.” 

“ I do ! God have mercy upon me, I promise !” 

He fell forward again, and after another terrible groan 
there was long silence, more fearful than the agony which 
had gone before. 


CHAPTER XX. 

WAITING AND WATCHING. — 

All night long, Laura lay upon her bed, counting the 
hours with feverish impatience, gazing drearily out upon 
the moonlight, and weeping, at times, till the curtains 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 223 

overhead trembled with the violence of her sobs. All the 
pretty wiles, that had seemed but a harmless means of 
securing Arnold’s love, now rose before her tortured 
imagination as coarse and unwomanly artifice, which had 
only repulsed him. Her beauty, of which she had been 
so proud, was, in that hour of humiliation, a source of 
annoyance. What was it worth, if the only heart she 
cared to own in the wide world turned from that beauty 
with indifference. Nay, was she indeed beautiful ? Not 
in the style which he had been taught to admire, — not 
like the fair blonde who had rescued her from death. 
Compared to her that creamy complexion, and hair as 
black and brighter than the neck of a raven, was, in her 
strained imagination, overrich to coarseness. And her 
eyes, so large and bright — how could any man admire them 
who had once looked on the soft, violet orbs of Amy 
Leonard ? Yes, that was beauty. What right had she 
to expect homage to charms so unlike and even so in- 
ferior ? 

Thus the proud girl — proud in the excess of her hu- 
mility — spent the long, harassing night. The moon* 
beams of the evening made her weep and turn away from 
their brightness. The storm, which broke and dashed 
over the town towards morning, appealed more directly to 
her passionate sorrow. When she heard the first howl 
of the tempest, her courage rose, and she was filled with a 
bitter wish to go out and battle with it. The fever in 
her blood was so hot, the thirst for action so press- 
ing, that she could endure the quiet of her bed no 
longer. 

Laura threw back the curtains and stepped forth into 
the darkness. Her dress had been loosened, but not taken 
off, and the tap of her high-heeled shoes was lost in the 


224 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

beating of the rain as she walked up and down the cham- 
ber, angry now, and flushed with resentment for the wrong 
that had fallen on her, — that wrong which no law can 
reach, and of which a haughty woman dies, calling it by 
any name the doctors in their wisdom may choose. 

The chamber was large, but in her fever the air seemed 
close and insufficient. • She flung open the sash, gasping 
for breath. In rushed the wind, dashing coldly over 
her face and bosom. She received it with a sense of re- 
lief. Her hot cheeks grew cooler as the rain beat against 
them. Her excitement rose with keen sympathy, and met 
the storm half-way. What did she care that the rich 
braids that crowned her head were getting heavy with 
moisture, or that the knots of ribbon, that had fluttered so 
gayly on her dress a few hours before, were dangling like 
wilted flowers on the wet silk of her skirt ? The storm 
in her soul was replied to by the storm without. She felt 
like a wild bird drifting madly with the tempest, — a poor 
white gull, that had been lured far, far out to sea, and must 
now brave the elements alone. 

The old elm-tree seemed maddened like herself : its 
branches raved and tossed themselves up and down, to 
and fro, playing with the lightning, and flinging great 
masses of leaves upon the wind as it rushed by. To Laura 
the old tree seemed human, and suffering with pain as she 
was. 

How bravely the forest monarch bore itself! With 
what lofty grandeur it shook off the lightning and the 
rain ! How fiercely its branches thrashed the roof and 
knocked against the verandahs, scattering torn leaves 
upon the floor, where the rain beat them down, as the 
world deals with fallen humanity. 

The creaking of the sign on its rusty hinges struck her 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 225 

like a cry of anguish, — the very cry that she in her pride 
was strangling in the depths of her bosom. 

The window where Laura stood opened on the upper ve- 
randah, which was now a blaze of lightning, now enveloped 
with darkness. The casement was broad and deep ; she 
flung the sash wide open and sprang out on the wet floor. 
Here was room to breathe, — here the wind raved and 
rioted as pride and sorrow battled in her own soul. 

She walked up and down the long gallery, sobbing faint 
echoes to the deeper sough of the storm. Sometimes low 
cries broke from her lips, — those cries which she had stifled 
in her room from fear of being heard. But as these ex- 
pressions of grief left her heart the wind tossed them out 
into the storm, shouting over them as coarse humanity 
might have done had it been able to seize upon her sor- 
row and drag it into the public knowledge. 

Laura thought of this, and triumphed over her powers 
of concealment. She would have no confidant but the 
storm ; not even her brother should guess how her pride 
had been crushed, how her poor heart bled. As for Ar- 
nold, he must never know of her humiliation. She would 
meet him again on the morrow with a pride that should 
more than match his indifference. Yes ; she would stay 
some weeks in the town, receiving graciously the homage 
of those admirers who had been so recklessly cast aside 
during her infatuation. He should see how men could 
adore her and be grateful for one of the smiles which he 
had not cared to gather. Certainly she would stay a few 
weeks, gather a harvest of admiration, and then go away. 
Go away ! Where ? and how ? 

The blank that followed this question fell like a pall on 
her heart. Without love where can a woman go and not 
find a desert ? She ceased to walk as the desolating idea 
14 


226 THE REJECTED WIPE. 

crept over her, and stood leaning against a pillar of the 
verandah, pale, drenched and hopeless. Body and soul 
she was chilled through and through. 

“ Laura !” 

A cry died in her throat ; her heavy eyes filled with 
wild brilliancy; for the lightning playing among the 
branches of the elm revealed Benedict Arnold. He stood 
directly before her, against the yawning space of an opeii 
window, through which he had just passed, having seer 
her standing there alone amidst the gleams of light. 

“ Laura, my beloved, why are you out in a night like 
this ? You are tempting death.” 

She looked at him with her wild eyes ; her lips trem- 
bled apart, but she could not utter a word : speech seemed 
chained down in her bosom. 

“ What is the matter ?” he said, more gently than she had 
ever heard him speak before. “ I went to your parlor late 
in the evening and found it empty. The landlady told me 
you had gone to bed ill. The thought was enough to keep 
me awake ; and the storm brought me to the window, 
where I saw you thus.” 

Laura wound her arms around the pillar, for the thrill 
that ran through every fibre of her frame made her faint. 

“And you sought me? You came to my room! 
You ” 

“ Yes, I went there,” he said, gently unwinding her arm 
from its clasp around the pillar, and drawing her suddenly 
into his embrace. “ And this was what I was panting to 
say, — Laura, Laura de Montreuil, will you be my wife ?” 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE MORTGAGED FARM. 

There had been a revival in the leading congregations 
at Norwich. This religious sentiment commenced with 
the return of old Mr. Arnold to brotherhood with his for- 
mer associates. The excitement caused by this reforma- 
tion gave more active spirituality to the church, which, 
after a time, grew into one of those periods of absorbing 
devotion that pass through Christian communities from 
time to time, as thunder-storms break through the atmos- 
phere, leaving it purer from the tumult. 

During the winter this intense interest was kept up in 
the church, and towards spring it began to consolidate into 
a fixed reformation. Many new members had joined the 
society, old ones had become earnest, and that year the 
foundations of new religious communities were laid which 
exist to this day in the City of Terraces. 

All this wholesome excitement had sprung, as I have 
said, from the sudden appearance of the elder Arnold in 
his former place of worship. His contrition, his humility, 
and the sweet thankfulness that glowed on the face of his 
wife when she came with him to meeting, arm-in-arm, as 
in the olden times, woke up the whole congregation. I 
do not think Mr. Leonard even congratulated himself on 
the fact or was aware of it. But he was surely the 
father of this revival, — always, as he would have said, 

227 


228 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

baring his head reverently at the thought, always under 
God’s providence. 

It was the few words in season that Leonard ‘had ut- 
tered in the saw-mill that cold winter’s day, and the 
prayer, so thrilling in its rude eloquence, offered amid the 
thunders of the falls, that had touched the old man’s heart 
as with a gleam of living fire, and spreading from soul to 
soul with the holy magnetism of truth, turned the general 
thought heavenward. 

Leonard claimed no credit for this, — indeed, was quite 
unaware that any could be awarded to him ; but he threw 
himself heart and mind into the revival, holding it above 
all things most important. Sometimes the saw-mill would 
remain silent all day long. If a soul was in trouble, or a 
sinner became thoughtful, the great log was left, half eaten 
through, with the motionless steel prisoned in its heart, 
while the master strode off among the fields, searching 
for that troubled conscience which the truth that burned 
within him might cleave as effectually as his saw cut through 
the forest-trunks when the water rushed most abundantly 
from the hills. 

Mrs. Leonard was a good sort of woman, — a church- 
member and all that. She took a lively interest in the 
revival. In a decorous, motherly way, she had gone out 
to tea more than usual, always dropping a great many 
words in season over the short-cake, and giving promis- 
cuous little exhortations to the young folks while her 
Young Hyson was drawing. But the good wife mingled 
a deal of temporal thrift with her heavenly-mindedness, 
and it rather annoyed her to see how many logs came to 
the mill and how few boards went away during the heat 
of this excitement. 

Leonard was a resolute man, in his own way, and had 


THE MORTGAGED FARM, 229 

the happy faculty of not hearing his wife’s hints about 
“ beginning with one’s own household,” and other Scrip- 
tural ideas, which, being lost in a flood of words, swept 
by him like the waters that turned his mill. So he went 
on his way doing good, and taking no heed to the conse- 
quences. 

Amy Leonard retired from the publicity of these 
anxious meetings and prayer-circles. From her child- 
hood she had been a church-member. Her interest in 
sacred things was high and pure ; but she shrunk away 
from this enthusiasm with something like affright. Once 
or twice she had gone with her parents to the evening 
prayer-meetings, but the effort seemed too much for her. 
She took no share in the religious proceedings, while 
other girls were ardent in their efforts, but sat apart, 
growing pale and weak, as if the enthusiasm which fired 
others to devotion were consuming her. Sometimes, when 
this excitement broke into ecstasy and all the faces around 
glowed with joy, her great blue eyes would seem to take 
fright, and search wistfully around for some means of 
escape from a scene that gave her nothing but pain. 
Frequently, those eyes would fill with tears, and turn 
upon her old friends pleadingly, as if some help were 
needed which she doubted they would withhold. 

At last she gathered courage, and besought her parents 
to leave her at home. She was not strong, and somehow 
night air and exertion made her worse. 

This was her timid plea, and surely that white face and 
the shadowy circle under her eyes gave sufficient force to 
the appeal. 

In an excitement like that which possessed the society, 
there was little room for keen observation. Mrs. Leonard 
knew that Amy was far from well ; but as she seldom 


230 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


complained, and went steadily about her duties, her poor 
unhappy face escaped the scrutiny which less occupied 
minds might have given it. 

Mrs. Leonard, it is true, found plenty of time at the 
sewing-circles and after prayer-meeting to talk over her 
daughter’s health, and express a great deal of anxiety 
regarding it. She never came home without some new 
recipe for drinks or powders which Amy was to try. 
Sometimes it would be pounded peach-pits which Mrs. 
So-and-So had informed her was infallible in almost any 
disease ; then a drink of bruised clover-leaves, or a powder 
of burnt alder must be tried, all of which Amy took with 
wan submission which would have made your heart ache. 

All at once this great anxiety regarding Amy Leonard 
died out. The good house-mothers inquired after her, it 
is true, but with constrained voices, and looking another 
way. They grew exceedingly kind to the mother, and 
seemed rather disposed to urge the cooling drinks on her, 
as if she had become the person who most urgently re- 
quired strengthening. 

Mrs. Leonard laughed at this attempt to discredit the 
roses on her buxom cheek, and wondered what it was that 
made the sisters pray for her so often, and so earnestly, as 
if she were not in full communion and grace. It rather 
annoyed her to be held up as an object of special solicitude. 

Leonard, too, might have seen a change in his brethren’s 
looks of earnest sympathy, — a studied deference to his 
opinions and wishes that would have struck him as re- 
markable at another time ; but now he was busy calling 
sinners to the altar of God, and only thought of these 
things long enough to be grateful for them without investi- 
gating their sources. 

In Mr. Arnold’s family a great change had also taken 


THE MORTGAGED FARM. 


231 


i ace. From a dilatory, careless man, confused by excess and 
shrinking from notice, he had taken np his farming duties 
v Hh energy. The colored men, who had loitered half 
tleir time around the kitchen, were now put to hard 
work, repairing fences, planting fields, and laying stone 
walls on the farm, and a few months gave the neglected 
place an aspect of thrift and comfort that it had not known 
for years. 

But, strange enough, with this prosperity came a thirst 
for money, and habits of penurious saving, that curtailed 
the comforts of the household beyond any thing known in 
the family before. Arnold seemed to count every grain 
of rye, or ear of corn consumed in-doors as an extrava- 
gance to be condemned. His cattle were all sold off 
except those necessary to working the place, — every 
superfluity disappeared, and yet no money seemed to 
replace the property that was sold. 

When the young Frenchman came up from New Haven, 
— as he did once or twice during the season, — this strict 
economy was a little relaxed ; but the moment he was 
gone, every thing beyond bare necessaries was denied 
again. Mrs. Arnold wondered at this change, but she did 
not complain. Any thing was better than the thriftless 
waste of former years. She was too thankful for the 
blessed return of her husband to care how he managed 
the property, which, after all, belonged to him. 

One day, about this time, Mr. Arnold sought Hr. Blake 
in his office, which consisted of a little one-story wing 
attached to a dwelling-house of some considerable preten- 
sion in the edge of the town. Hr, Blake was a man of 
means, and for this reason his old neighbor came. 

The doctor had just returned from his circuit, which 
kept him two-thirds of the time on horseback. His horse, 


232 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

with the marks of a saddle on his sides, was cropping the 
white clover in front of the house, and his saddle-bags, 
worn perfectly smooth, stood behind the door, strapped for 
use. The good man was seated in a capacious splint- 
bottomed chair, which, with his homespun clothes, gave a 
rustic look to his appearance. He was busy writing down 
an account of his visits when Arnold came in. 

On the first symptoms of Arnold’s reformation, Dr. 
Blake had been one of the first to extend the right hand 
of fellowship to the struggling man ; and now his fine face 
expanded with a glow of welcome as his old neighbor 
came in. He flung down the pen, and arose, offering the 
great splint-chair to his guest. 

“ I’m glad to see you, — rale glad at all times. You 
know that, neighbor, without telling. Come, sit down, 
and make yourself at home.” 

No. Mr. Arnold would not take the doctor’s chair. 
Another would answer just as well for him. He had 
come to talk over a little business. 

“ Business ! Oh, well, of course. But just now I would 
like to talk of something else. It’s on my mind, Arnold, 
and I must get it off or it’ll choke me, — your son, Arnold. 
I want to have a plain talk about that young scam — 
fellow.” 

Arnold became nervous in an instant, and put up both 
hands, as if to ward off a blow. 

“ Not about him. At any rate, not yet, doctor. Wait 
till you hear what I came for. Give me time and I will 
talk about Benedict. Just now there is no subject on 
earth that I dread so much.” 

“ Well, well, I don’t want to bother you. After all, 
talking often does more good than harm. But your son, 
Arnold, — your son ” 


THE MORTGAGED FARM. 233 

“ Don’t, don’t !” said Arnold, lifting both hands again 
“ I’m doing my best, pinching and saving every way. The 
women folks complain about it, and I don’t blame ’em ; 
but it must be done. It is that which brought me here.” 

“What is it? You talk at random, neighbor. You 
can’t help the young — well, well, the young man — by 
pinching and saving at home. It is a case beyond that.” 

“ I know, saving by little and little might drag through 
one’s whole life, and then leave the thing undone. You 
have plenty of money out at interest. Can’t you draw 
some in ? I want to mortgage the farm.” 

“ Mortgage your farm, Arnold ?” 

“ Yes ; just come and ride over it, — see the crops, fences, 
and barns. We’ve worked hard this spring, and repaired 
every thing; besides, I’ve sold off a good deal of stock.” 

“ And you really want to hire money on the farm ?” 

“ I can’t get along without it, doctor. ” 

“ But you have no debts, — nothing to speak of, or 1 
should have heard about it.” 

“No, not a debt. I paid all those things off at once. 
They didn’t amount to much ; my wife always took care 
of that.” 

“ And now you want money. How much ?” 

Arnold mentioned the -sum. The doctor looked aston- 
ished. 

“ Why, man alive, that’ll almost cover the whole value 
of your place.” 

“ I know it. I know it. But every year we’ll make 
the farm worth more and more.” 

The doctor looked at his earnest face. How it had 
changed ! There was force and intellect in it now, — 
something that commanded respect in the serious purpose 
that evidently possessed him. 


234 THE REJECTED WIPE. 

“ One question before I say yes or no about this money/ 
said the doctor, leaning back in his chair. “ Are you bor- 
rowing it for any speculation of your son’s ? If that is the 
case I won’t let you have a farthing.” 

Arnold turned white as this question came bluntly forth, 
and he answered slowly, thinking over each word with 
conscientious truthfulness. 

“ No, it’s not a speculation. I want to pay the money. 
It’ll never come back again. I must pay off the mortgage 
by degrees.” 

“ Ah, neighbor, you’ll find that hard work.” 

“ I know it ; but it might have been done before this if 
I hadn’t given up like a coward. If God spares my life 
it shall be paid up, every shilling of it. Don’t be afraid, 
doctor. The farm is a good one, and my wife and I, with 
the hands, can live on a little. I’ve cyphered it all out, 
over and over again.” 

“ But tell me what you want of this large sum of money, 
Arnold ?” 

“ I cannot. It is a duty — something that I must pay, 
or go to the grave bowed down with a burden that no one 
can take up for me.” 

The old man’s voice was sad ; the perspiration started 
to his forehead in drops. He wiped it off with his hand- 
kerchief, and tried to smile. 

“You’ll let me have the money, doctor ? It’ll make a 
new man of me.” 

“ Yes, Arnold, I’ll let you have it ; but, remember, I 
lon’t want your farm. If it falls into my hands at last, I 
shall always condemn myself for this day’s work.” 

“ When — when can I have it ?” inquired Arnold, eagerly. 

“ Why ? Is there so much haste ?” 

“ Oh, yes. I shall not be a man till it is done.” 


THE MORTGAGED FARM. 


235 


“ Well, I will call in the money at once.” 

“ Within a week ?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Surely. I trust surely. The time will seem long 
iny way.” 

“Well, well, PH not be over — a week.” 

“ Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you in the 
right way, doctor.” 

“Well, never mind. Come, take a glass of cider- 
brandy.” 

“ I, doctor ?” 

“ Oh, brother, I forgot. Well, then, a cup of tea ; the 
old woman’ll have one ready about this time. I’ve got 
something to talk over with you.” 

Arnold shrunk within himself. 

“ Not to-night. I don’t think that I could bear any 
thing more just at present. Some other time.” 

“Well, well, remember me to the women folks. 1 tell 
you what, Arnold, that wife of yours is an angel.” 

“ She’s all the world to me, doctor. No one can guess 
what she has done for her husband ; and the girl is her 
mother over again.” 

As he spoke, Arnold took up his hat and prepared to go 
out. The doctor seemed ready to speak again, but some 
kind feeling checked him, and, with a cordial grip of 
the hand, he saw the heavily-burdened man depart. 

When quite alone, he sat some time with his arms 
folded on the desk before him, pondering over the conver- 
sation which had just passed. He was anxious and tired ; 
but his heart went out in compassionate sympathy, not 
only for the man who had left him, but for one to whom 
he must carry still more bitter sorrow. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

A religious excitement, wherever it arises, is sure to 
wake a thousand virtues into action, which, in ordinary 
times, sleep supinely in human nature. Besides the 
prayer-meetings, anxious circles and lectures, spinning- 
bees and quiltings presented themselves to the congrega- 
tion. “ The servant is worthy of his hire,” was the 
generous opinion ; and the minister, who averaged two or 
three lectures or sermons a day, must not be forgotten in 
his worldly stores. So blocks of patchwork were dis- 
tributed throughout each household connected with the 
society, from which a sumptuous quilt was set in progress 
for the minister, and no housewife set her flax-wheel aside 
that season without adding a few runs of yarn for the 
spinning-bee which was to come off in behalf of that good 
man. 

If Leonard was most active in spiritual matters, his 
bustling wife took up those temporal results of the revival 
with no inferior amount of energy. In fact she was the 
heart and soul of these undertakings. Early and late the 
hum of her wheel might be heard setting up a small op- 
position to the rush of the falls, and her steel-sided thimble 
grew brighter and brighter while constantly forcing the 
glittering needle through gorgeous bits of calico, which 
were industriously cut into diamonds, squares, or stars, 
and as industriously stitched together again. 

236 


THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 237 
♦ 

Amy Leonard did her share of the work, — more than 
her share, poor thing, — considering how pale and ill she 
looked. But sometimes when her mother’s back was 
turned, the tears would swell into her eyes and blind 
them, till the flyers flashed before her in broken sparkles 
or her needle disappeared in the mist. 

All the time she never spoke of Arnold ; and her 
mother, with unusual reticence, avoided the young man’s 
name. His visits to the cabin had taken place during her 
absence to evening meetings, and she looked upon the 
attachment which had evidently once existed between him 
and her daughter, as a feeling that had died out on the 
young man’s part, and which a little time would set right 
with Amy. The whole subject was a matter of self- 
reproach to the good woman ; for she had encouraged the 
intimacy between the young people with all her match- 
making skill, partly because the Arnolds were a respecta- 
ble old family, still rich enough to hold their heads high, 
and partly because her kind, womanly instincts told her 
how deeply the best feelings of her child had become in- 
volved. 

But with all Mrs. Leonard’s worldly foresight, she was 
of the old Puritan stock, and had neither charity nor 
countenance for sin in any form in which it could present 
itself. Nay, even the suspicion of sin, vaguely as it came, 
was enough to turn her heart against the young man. 

Joshua Leonard had told his wife of the warning whic' 
the elder Arnold had given with regard to his son. The 
anguish with which this warning had been uttered struck 
conviction to Leonard’s soul. He knew how hard it must 
be for a kind parent to condemn his own child ; and, inco- 
herent as the words had been, they left a fearful impres- 
sion of truth. 


238 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Leonard was a strong, powerful man ; but he shrunk 
frofti any thing that threatened to give pain to his 
daughter ; and, with that delicacy which makes great 
strength beautiful, spoke of Arnold’s warning only to his 
wife. She, self-sufficient in all domestic affairs, placed 
herself on the watch ; and, instead of retreating as of old 
when the young man came to spend the evening at her 
cabin, kept her place at the fireside, diminishing in nothing 
her usual hospitality, but watching vigilantly every word 
or glance which passed between the young people. 

Then came the revival, which swept all home thoughts 
from her mind. Young Arnold seemed to have dropped 
out of her life. She heard with satisfaction his name con- 
nected with the French girl ; and, rejoicing that her 
season of vigilance was at an end, allowed herself to be 
swept off in the absorbing turmoil of a revival. 

All that time Benedict Arnold spent his evenings at the 
hearth -stone which the father and mother had deserted, 
beguiling that fair young creature into a deception which 
was weighing her soul to the earth. 

At last he went away, and, to escape the mournful 
loneliness that fell upon her, Amy sometimes attended 
evening meetings with her parents. Leonard and his 
wife both noticed that she was generally excited and 
flushed before she started to these gatherings, but came 
back oppressed with a heavy sadness that nothing could 
mitigate or explain. They did not observe that on several 
occasions she had disappeared from the meetings for a 
few minutes, and, hurrying with breathless haste to the 
post-office, would ask, with shrinking eyes and a voice 
that could scarcely be heard, if there was no letter yet ? 

The answer w~as always a half-rebuking, half-compas- 
sionate shake of the head, at which she would creep away 


THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 239 

and glide back into the congregation like a ghost ; but 
when once upon her knees, the sobs that broke through 
those little hands clasped over her face were enough to 
melt a heart of granite. 

Then week after week went by, and Amy would go to 
meeting no more. The noise confused her, she said. It 
was far better to stay at home and spin yarn for the 
minister’s spinning-bee : it would save her mother from 
so much extra work. Mrs. Leonard repeated this at the 
sewing-circles, when the blocks of patch-work were 
brought in and sewed together in general conclave. At 
first these reasons were received with expressions of 
sympathy for sweet Amy Leonard’s ill-health ; but, after 
a time, covert glances were cast from eye to eye, and Mrs. 
Leonard’s maternal egotism was received in grave silence. 

This was the state of things, as I have before hinted, 
when the spring time broke upon beautiful Norwich. The 
spinning season was well nigh over, and the result of all 
those wheels, that had been hissing and humming in nearly 
every dwelling within five miles of Norwich, was to ex- 
hibit itself in a grand quilting and spinning-bee, which the 
minister was notified would take place at his own dwell- 
ing on one of the loveliest June days that ever gladdened 
a human heart. 

The women’s share of the entertainment was complete, 
with the exception of an extra baking in every household, 
which was to save the minister’s wife from all demands of 
hospitality for the self-invited guests. They had nothing 
more to accomplish. They would assemble in the after- 
noon to finish the quilt, which a committee of four was 
appointed to fit into the frames and mark out in a border 
of double herring-bone and a centre of shell-work. 

Another committee would take charge of the table set 


240 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


out in the long, back kitchen which opened into an apple- 
orchard ; and a third was to receive the hanks of linen, 
tow, and woolen yarn, for which pegs were provided all 
around the best chamber up-stairs. These were all fem- 
inine arrangements, and sure to be well done, as the min- 
ister knew of old. But the brethren of the church were 
not to be entirely excluded. Their contributions, it is 
true, came in less ostentatiously, but in a form quite as 
substantial. Many a bag of potatoes had found its way 
to the minister’s cellar during the winter ; to say nothing 
of firkins of shad salted down on the banks of the river 
where they were caught ; and sacks of grain, enough to 
keep the ministerial family in breadstuff till the harvest 
came on. 

For these benevolent and scattering donations the breth- 
ren were permitted to join in the yarn festival after the 
quilt was taken off, when there was to be a grand tea- 
drinking, to wind up with extemporaneous singing under 
the apple-trees and a short season of prayer. 

Of course, there was great excitement all over Norwich ; 
for a festival equal to this, either in numbers or amount 
of contributions, had never been heard of in the good town 
before. Over thirty new converts had been added to the 
congregation, and their contributions seemed a tangible 
proof of stability in the holy service of the Lord. Over 
these new converts there was nothing but thanksgiving 
and praise, which gave the idea of a religious jubilee to 
the whole occasion. 

But from all this rejoicing the two families in which we 
are most deeply interested seemed strangely excluded. 
The Leonards had been invited, it is true; but it was 
somewhat remarkable that Amy’s name was left out in the 
tnvitation ; and Mrs. Leonard, instead of being appointed 


THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 241 

to some prominent place in the arrangement, had hardly 
been consulted. She was a guest, at liberty to bring in 
her mite, of course, but that was not the position which 
she had just reason to expect. The generous woman 
was a good deal astonished, and seriously hurt by this 
slight. She, who had been a pillar in the church so long, 
— who had worked night and day that the value of her 
contribution should be second to none, to be put aside 
without right or reason she could not understand it. 

Leonard was so much accustomed to his wife’s bustle 
and clatter on occasions of this kind, that he scarcely heeded 
her complaints, and contented himself by advising her to 
do her duty, and not trouble him about the way it was 
done, or how others performed theirs. 

With this wholesome admonition he cast the subject 
from his mind. But with Amy the case was far different. 
She was constantly searching her mother’s face with those 
large eyes, as if there was something in this slight from 
which she shrunk tremblingly away. Sometimes, when 
her mother would break into the subject suddenly, the poor 
girl would start and almost cry out with a pain that struck 
her to the heart. 

Still, Mrs. Leonard was too much a woman of spirit to 
retreat or flag in her purpose. She wasn’t to be driven 
from her duty, — not she. If the sisters did not want her 
help or advice, very well : they could do without it. Of 
one thing she was certain : the quilt would be a botch 
if she wasn’t there to mark and roll up. As for the yarn, 
why that which Amy had spun would be like cobwebs to 
a cable compared to any thing they would have. Really 
it seemed as if the girl was spinning it out of her own 
sighs, for every thread was drawn with a deep breath. 

When that yarn was brought in the sisters would blush 

15 


242 


THE EEJECTED WIFE. 


at their ingratitude, if any blush was left in ’em. Then 
as for cake, she would like to see a woman of them all 
who could round off a plum-cake like her; and as for 
doughnuts, — oh, nonsense ! they couldn’t one of ’em catch 
up with her there, in a week of Sundays ! Well, as Joshua 
said, she would- do her duty and not care about others. It 
was hard, but she hadn’t been a church-member so long 
without knowing how to forgive. 

“ Mother,” said Amy, with a quiver in her voice, “ per- 
haps it’s me.” 

“You ! What can this mean, Amy ? You ! Why no 
little bird in its nest was ever so harmless as you have 
been, sitting here lonesome as a whip-poor-will while your 
father and I have done nothing but exhort, and pray, and 
run after converts ; and this is what we get for it. But 
the Lord knows which is right.” 

Amy went close up to her mother. Every fibre of her 
body quivered and a look of death was on her face. She 
reached out her hand and attempted to lay it on her moth- 
er’s shoulder, but Mrs. Leonard brushed it off as if a rose- 
leaf annoyed her. 

“ There, there ; don’t talk. I know my duty as a Chris- 
tian, and won’t be preached to by my own child. Just go 
into the next room and see if the sponge is rising nicely. 
I wouldn’t have them doughnuts beat to-morrow for any 
thing : that would be a cross I couldn’t take up.” 

Amy turned away with a gasping breath. When her 
mother went into the next room, impatient to see how her 
cake was rising, she found Amy sitting on the floor by the 
wooden bread -bowl, with both hands clasped in her lap, 
gazing hard at the opposite window. 

“ Why, Amy, you are getting too shiftless. Why on 
earth couldn’t you lift that cloth and tell me how the dough 


THE MOTHER AHB DAUGHTER. 243 

is working ? I used them new turnpike emptins that no- 
body else has got, and the cakes ought to yeast oyer the 
bowl by this time. 

But Amy sat motionless, gazing at the window. Hei 
mother’s voice sent a shiver over her, but it failed to un- 
lock the agony that held her faculties. 

“ Amy, why don’t you speak ?” 

“ Mother, I can’l. I have been trying, but the words 
choke me.” 

She spoke in a dreamy way, waving her head to and 
fro, — to and fro, as if the sound of her own words was a 
pain which she could not shake off. 

Mrs. Leonard took Amy by the arm and lifted her to 
her feet. 

“ Are you crazy, Amy Leonard ?” she said, half-angrily, 
for the slight she had received had rasped the good wo- 
man’s temper more than she liked to acknowledge. 

“ No, mother.” 

“ Then what is the matter ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“I don’t believe it. You are either a bad-tempered, 
provoking girl, determined to torment your poor mother’s 
life out, or you’re down sick and ought to have a doctor 
right off.” 

“ No, no : I’m well,” almost shrieked Amy ; “ well and 
strong. See ; I can lift this big bowl like nothing.” 

She stooped down and lifted the bread-bowl as if it had 
been a handful of feathers ; and, carrying it into the next 
room, set it on the table and raised the cloth of snowy 
linen. 

“ Look, mother, look,” she cried, with a hysterical laugh ; 
“the turnpike emptins are working famously ! See : the 
dough is all honeycombed and swelling up like foam ! It’s 


244 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


time to get your pan of lard over the fire. Where is the 
flour-dredge and rolling pin ? I’ll cut the cakes out while 
you fry them.” 

Mrs.. Leonard looked at her daughter a moment in blank 
astonishment and then broke into an uneasy laugh. 

“ Dear me, Amy, you are a strange girl. I never saw 
your like : one minute moaning in the cellar, the next sing- 
ing in the garret. But no wonder you laugh; that dough 
beats all I ever did see. So bustle about and roll the cakes 
into shape while I get the big fork and pan. I’ve saved 
some lard a-purpose, sweet as a nut and white as snow. 
That’s right, tie on your checked apron and roll up your 
sleeves. Why, Amy, how thin your arms are getting ! 
Dear me, there, lay down the rolling-pin ! I can handle 
it best. You can round the cakes after I cut them out, — 
that’s work for a baby. There, now you are beginning to 
tremble again ! Never mind ; I don’t want any help to 
fry a batch of doughnuts. Well, if you must do some- 
thing, just beat up the white of half a dozen eggs, and 
make some frosting for the pound-cake. I want it to look 
like snow-crust and taste like honey. They shan’t beat 
us, Amy, in any thing. I’ll show ’em.” 

Amy took the work allotted to her, and directly the con- 
tents of her bowl were creaming over with pearly foam, 
beaten up by a hand that trembled like an aspen leaf ; 
while her mother wielded her rolling-pin and shook her 
dredging-box fiercely, as she remembered the slight that 
had been put upon her. 

The melted lard had simmered itself into silence, only 
hissing out a spiteful protest as the limp bits of dough fell 
into it, swelling and browning into cakes that were to 
excite the envy of all Norwich. Still the good woman 
had continued her indignant complaints against neighbors 


THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 245 


that could treat her so. But as the fire grew hot, and the 
brown nuts rose to a mountain in the bright tin milk-pan 
placed on the hearth for their reception, a certainty of tri- 
umphant success mollified her, and a rain of Christian 
charity pattered through the torrent of her resentment, as 
we sometimes see the brightest rain-drops dimpling the 
turbid surface of a pool. 

“ After all, Amy, I’ll set them an example, —see if I 
don’t, — one that they’ll never forget so long as the meet- 
ing-house stands. I’ll make two big pound-cakes instead 
of one. The best cheese in the milk-house shall go, if we 
have to scrimp ourselves a month. As for dried beef and 
them doughnuts, I won’t stop to weigh or count. When 
I do heap coals of fire on the sisters’ heads they shall burn 
lively, now I tell you. To-night your father shall get a 
load of white pine tops, hemlock and prince’s pine to dress 
the supper-room with. No-body else’ll think of that, I 
reckon. Then you shall go over to the swamp and get an 
armfull of wild roses. The hemlock-buds is sprouting out 
lovely, and — yes, I’ve a’most a mind to send that string of 
robins’ eggs over the looking-glass. That would touch 
their feelings, for they all know how I prized them eggs. 
Then, after I’ve shown them what a true Christian spirit 
is, I’ll say, ‘ Sisters, what is the reason you put this slight 
on me and my daughter ? To say nothing of myself, — that 
ain’t of much account, perhaps, — she’s the salt of the earth, 
as good and pious as the oldest church-member amongst 
you, — never told even a fib in her life, or kept the least 
thing from her mother. She’s — dear me, Amy, what is 
the matter ? You’ll let that bowl slide off your lap ! 
Goodness, what a face ! Why, child, are you dying ?” 

“No, mother, no. I’m — the heat — that fire. Oh, moth- 
er, mother !” 


246 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The cry that broke through these gasping words thrilled 
through and through the good woman, for it was sharp 
with pain. 

Mrs. Leonard flung the door open with sudden affright ; 
and, gathering up the corners of her apron, tightened the 
edge and commenced fanning that pale face with all her 
might. 

“ Are you better ? Does it do any good ? Wait a min- 
ute till I get the turkey’s wing.” 

“ No, mother, don’t, — don’t ! I wan’t to go out, — -just a 
minute. ” 

“ Well, go. The air will bring you to. Dear me, I wish 
your father would stay about more ; these fainting fits 
scare me a’most to death I” 

Amy tried to reassure her mother by a smile ; but the 
attempt was more painful to look upon than tears would 
have been. Mrs. Leonard brought a sun-bonnet from its 
nail in the next room, and tied it over the poor quivering 
face, with tears in her own sunny eyes. 

“ Go down by the falls, Amy : the air will be cool there. 
Don’t mind helping me ; I shall get through nicely. This 
fire is awful hot ; but, law, I don’t mind it no more than 
nothing.” 

The kind woman would have kissed the face which the 
bonnet protected ; but Amy turned away her head, as if 
dismayed by those plump lips. But when she saw the 
color rush to her mother’s temples she put up her pale 
mouth and met the caress ; but the touch was like marble. 

She went to the falls, that pale, broken-hearted girl, and 
sat down on the shelf of rock which had been consecrated 
by her father’s prayer months ago. There she fell into a 
state of apathy, — that dead stillness of the mind which 
comes when no source for action presents itself. Her eyes 


A TUMULT IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 247 


were fixed on the waters. The dizzy whirl of their foam 
made her brain reel. She shrunk back into the shade of 
a great hemlock branch that stretched over her like a ban- 
ner ; and, covering her eyes with both hands, rocked to and 
fro in desolate silence, while the leaves whispered over 
her, and the sunshine strove to penetrate the thick leaves 
— and look on her sorrow in vain. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A TUMULT IN THE HOUSEHOLD — SIGNING THE MORTGAGE. 

Another house in Norwich was the scene of trouble 
that day. The Arnold Mansion, so full of life and bustle 
when we first saw it, was greatly changed since the 
master had forsaken his old, negligent ways. Notwith- 
standing those unworthy habits, he had kept from im- 
pairing his property to any great extent ; and there was 
always enough and to spare for his family and the guests 
that came beneath his roof. But now this plenty had, by 
degrees, diminished, till strict parsimony reigned on the 
farm, a state of things which neither Mrs. Arnold nor 
Hannah could understand. As for Hagar, the rebellion 
of her spirit broke out furiously ; and she never set a dish 
upon the table, or kneaded a scant baking of bread, with- 
out muttering her discontent. 

Mrs. Arnold, singular to say, had, like her neighbor at 
the falls, been quite overlooked when the committees were 
formed to carry out the minister’s spinning-bee. Why 
was this ? the gentle woman questioned in her mind. 


248 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Why should she meet with neglect now, when her husband 
had returned to his Christian duties, which had never 
been visited on her during his moral debasement ? 
Had she committed some fault that her sisters passed 
her by so unkindly ? or, was she getting old, and did this 
seeming slight spring from a wish to spare her the anxiety 
and fatigue of active co-operation ? 

The gentle woman asked these questions over and over 
to herself, and at last mentioned them to Hannah, who, 
in her sweet way, gave the most pleasant construction to 
what seemed, even to her unsuspicious nature, strange, to 
say the least. 

“It is because you haven’t been very well lately, 
mother,” said the young girl, striving to believe her own 
words. “You know there was a general invitation given 
out to all the members.” 

“ Yes, but was that ever done before when any respon- 
sibility was to be taken, Hannah ? I must have offended 
some of the sisters, or perhaps the minister himself.” 

“ Offended them ! You, dear mother ! That is im- 
nossible.” 

“ I don’t know. Sometimes I think no one ever was so 
careless about other people’s feelings as I am. Only 
yesterday I forgot to have biscuit baked for Hagar and 
the men folks, and they’re always used to it.” 

“ But, mother, we had none on the table for ourselves. 
How could you ?” 

“Well, Hannah, that’s true; but the hands work so 
hard. Of course we can get along without nice things 
better than they. I really think Hagar felt the want 
of it.” 

“ Ho, marm. Hagar didn’t feel de want of dem ’ere 
biskit, nor nothin’ else, let me tell you !” cried the sable 


A TUMULT I N THE HOUSEHOLD. 249 

handmaid, pushing open the door which stood ajar. 
“ She jest wants ter- keep up de ’spectability ob de 
family, and dat’s all ’bout it. Bran bread’s good ’nuff for 
her and dem ’ere he cullered pussons as belong ter de 
house. She’d jest like to catch one on ’em complainin’ ; 
but dere isn’t no reason, as she can see on, why tings 
can’t be as dey used ter was, when an oben full of bread, 
and biskit, and ginger-cake, ter say nothin’ ob baked 
beans and Injin puddin’, was put in tree times a week. 
De family isn’t no smaller, as she eber heerd ; and as for 
de farm, it’s jist bringing in as much agin as it eber did, 
only ebery arthly ting is sold off afore it has a chance to 
git ripe. Missus Arnold, if you’ll jist gib any ’spectable 
reason for dese carryings on I’ll guv up ; but, till den, 
don’t nedir ob you ’spect ter see a smilin’ countenance 
’bout de kitchen ; for dere’s one pusson in dem premises 
dat can’t stand it, and won’t.” 

Poor Mrs. Arnold was taken quite aback by this 
harangue. Hagar had expressed her discontent in mut- 
tered words and black looks often enough, but never 
before had she given it the force of her peculiar eloquence. 
The worst of it was, the gentle woman, had she wished it, 
could have given no good reason for her husband’s parsi- 
mony, and to lay any blame on him was beyond her 
nature. It was all very strange, but surely the head of 
a house had a right to dispose of his own property un- 
questioned. 

As these thoughts ran through her mind, the mistress 
stood embarrassed and blushing before her handmaiden. 
At last she said, with gentle decision, 

“ It is Mr. Arnold’s will that we should live more sav- 
ing, Hagar. That is enough for me.” 

“ Humph 1” ejaculated Hagar, sniffing the air till her 


250 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


broad nostrils vibrated with the disdain that swelled them. 
“ If eber dis ’ere pusson should condescend ter unite her- 
self wid a man ob de opposite sect, she’d jist like ter see 
him scrimpin’ and savin’ ’bout her cookin’. Meachin busi- 
ness, mighty meachin business, Miss Arnold !” 

Hannah Arnold' laughed a little in spite of her an- 
noyance. 

“ Well, Hagar,” she said, quite cheerfully ; “of course 
father knows best. With a cook like you a little is quite 
sufficient. He trusts more to your skill than ever, 
that’s all.” 

Hagar bridled, and the inflation of her nostrils subsided 
with a gradual collapse. 

“ Now I know just what yer a-tinking ’bout, Hannah. 
It’s dem eggs as I beat up wid greens, and fried in a 
thick cake for dat French beau of yourn. He thought I 
couldn’t do it, but catch dis chile not understandin’ any 
ting she’s eber seen done ; dat harnsome gal wid de 
feathers, cum inter de kitchen to cook an — an — an — 
omnibus.” 

“ Omelet,” suggested Hannah, all in a glow of roses. 

“ Yes, an onionete for our Ben. I kep’ a sharp look- 
out, and ’membered ebery ting dat she put in, greens and 
all, — dat’s how it was ’complished. Lord a massy, didn’t 
he ’joy dat breakfast all ’lone wid you in de spare-room ?” 

Out came the roses over Hannah’s face all in full bloom 
again. Mrs. Arnold, too, felt the shadow of a blush pass 
over her cheek, from sympathy with the sweet confusion 
into which her child was thrown. 

“ Hagar,” she said, smiling softly, “ Fm afraid there’s 
something on fire in the kitchen. Hadn’t you better 
go see ?” 

“ More likely dere’s someting a-fire here,” said Hagar, 


SIGNING THE MORTGAGE. 


251 


casting a sidelong glance at Hannah’s burning face ; “ but 
I didn’t mean ter decompose nobody, ’cause dem as has 
been troo de mill know bow de stones grind. If der 
is any ting unpleasant for a ’septible pusson, it is ter feel 
yerself a-blushing when yer can’t help it. I know ov a 
gemman as says, he wouldn’t make de fair sect blush for 
nothin’ ; when a pusson I could mention, but won’t, was 
a-feelin’ as if a fire was blazing out in her cheeks all de 
time.” 

“But I’m sure there’s something going wrong in the 
kitchen, Hagar,” said Hannah, laughing in spite of herself. 

“No doubt, miss, — no doubt; but I’ve got someting 
more ’portant to ’tend to jest now. What ’bout de cook- 
ing for dis minister’s bee ? Not a word’s been said or 
done ’bout dat yet.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mrs. Arnold, with embarrassment. 
“ Perhaps we shan’t go.” 

“ Shan’t go, Miss Arnold ! Am dis family going to 
’struction, or am it not, dat’s what I want ter find out 
afore I step out ob dese tracks ?” 

“Well, Hagar, I can’t tell just yet. Mr. Arnold will be 
home soon, and I’ll speak^o him about it. Perhaps we 
shall go after all. The sisters might think us offended, 
Hannah. Oh, there he comes ! Run into the kitchen, 
Hagar. I will come to you in a little while, and then, 
perhaps, we shall be busy enough.” 

Hagar would probably have kept her ground, but she 
was deserted on the instant, as Mrs. Arnold and Hannah 
went to the front-door, waiting there for Mr. Arnold to dis- 
mount and come in. 

A stranger was with Arnold, — or rather a person who 
came unexpectedly. It was Dr. Blake, riding his chest- 
nut horse, but without the professional saddle-bags 


252 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The two men dismounted and came in together, talking 
earnestly as they approached the door. 

“ Think of it well, my friend,” the doctor was saying, 
as he came up the yard. “It is an easy thing to saddle 
a farm with things of this kind ; but not one man in ten 
ever gets his property clear again.” 

“ I know,” said Arnold, firmly. “ But there is no choice. 
I must have the money /” 

Mrs. Arnold heard this, and for a moment her heart 
beat fast ; but she looked in her husband’s face and grew 
calm again. There was something firm, almost grand in 
the expression, that gave her confidence. He had not 
looked so noble since the days of his youth. 

“ But stop a moment ; your wife may not like it ; I can 
do nothing against her consent,” said the doctor, who had 
not yet seen Mrs. Arnold and Hannah. 

“ There she is. Ask her if she can trust her husband 
now.” 

Mrs. Arnold stepped forward, smiling. 

“ What is it you want, husband ?” 

“ He wants you to sign a mortgage on this place,” said 
the doctor, bluntly ; “one th# he must work like a slave 
to pay off ; and which will leave you a poor widow if he 
fails to do it, for it would ruin me to lose so much money.” 

“Is it necessary ?” questioned the wife, looking into 
her husband’s face with her tender eyes. “ Is it best, 
husband ?” 

“ It is right, my poor wife. I can never breathe freely 
till it is done.” 

“ Come in,” she said, still smiling. “ There is a pen 
and ink in the out-room. Come, doctor, tell me where to 
put my name. Hannah, do you know what we are 
doing?” 


THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE. 253 


“ Yes, mother !” 

“ Well, come look on. It may leave us poor, daughter, 
but your father says it is right. Shall I sign here, Dr. 
Blake ?” 

The doctor placed his finger on the spot she was to 
sign, and she placed her name more boldly than it had 
ever been written before. 

“No,” said the doctor, taking up the mortgage, “noth- 
ing can make you a poor man, Arnold, while these two 
women live. Nothing !” 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE. 

The minister’s spinning-bee created a world of whole- 
some excitement in Norwich; every household was awake 
and in action. Men and women who had half grudgingly 
laid out a portion of their goods in the beginning, grew 
more and more liberal as the general enthusiasm in- 
creased, and doubled their gifts cheerfully when the time 
for decision came. 

IJp to the last day, and late at night, spinning-wheels 
were in full run, and . the buzz of spindles and whirr of 
flyers, filled the calm stillness long after the neighborhood 
was usually in bed. 

There was something refreshing and genial in all this 
stir of benevolence, which we of the nineteenth century 
can never know ; for that excitement which springs from 
good hearts, and looks to heaven for its fruition, has sunk 


254 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


into a dull leaden sort of duty in these days. Men would 
smile were we to speak of them in connection with re- 
creation and amusement. But in the old times when 
going out to tea, once a month, was considered relaxation 
enough for a respectable family, and a quilting ‘frolic par- 
took of dissipation, this church-gathering had the zest 
of a great festival, — a festival in which all shared as 
guests, and all figured as hosts and hostesses. 

In a neighborhood where respectable people went to 
bed, with religious punctuality, at nine o’clock, and chil- 
dren were invariably housed at sunset, a festival of this 
importance must commence in the afternoon ; for it was 
an unusual approach toward bad habits when the solemn 
hilarity extended into the dark hours. 

Thus, directly after the general twelve-o’clock dinner, 
preparations commenced in each household for the minis- 
ter’s gathering. Wagons, wheeled from under their sheds, 
were filled with splint-bottomed chairs for the elders, and 
milking-stools for the little folks. In some instances plain 
boards were passed from one side of the conveyance to 
the other, forming rude benches, on which whole families 
were to be crowded in rows and jolted cosily to town. 

In-doors there was a general commotion, — a rushing to 
and fro for Sunday clothes. Combs and brushes flew 
from hand to hand; there was a continual splash of water 
in the back porches ; while two or three laid claim to 
each wash-bowl at once ; and every crash towel in the 
neighborhood made constant evolutions on their rollers 
behind the door, as newly- washed claimants seized upon 
them. Children forgot to cry when the tangles were 
combed out of their elf locks ; and pretty girls plumed 
themselves like birds before the tiny looking-glasses, gar- 


THE minister’s s p I n n I n g - b e e. 255 

landed with birds’ eggs, which hung in the out-room, or 
best corner of every dwelling. 

An hour later, and you could scarcely see a wreath of 
smoke from any chimney within sight of Norwich. Ashes 
were raked over the embers of every hearth : the latch- 
string was drawn in at the cabin doors : and the hush of 
still life hung around each farm and homestead. 

But there was bustle and clatter enough along the 
roads leading townward. Cheerful voices, free ringing 
mirth, and sometimes shouts of laughter, resounded from 
wagon to wagon as one passed another, or struggled to 
keep up. This innocent riot came from the rear of each 
wagon, where the youngsters were located. Sometimes it 
was sternly checked by the head of the concern, who 
could not help being impressed by this rare holiday as if 
it had been the Sabbath ; but the mirth was sure to break 
out again in titters and gurgling bursts of laughter, at 
which the grim father would half-smile as it gradually 
dawned upon him that merriment, on this occasion, was 
seemly, and, in due bounds, to be forgiven. 

Thus the bright day was cheerful with rattling wheels, 
tramping horses, and human joyousness, as the church- 
members gathered around their clergyman. For that one 
day the minister could hardly be considered as the master 
of his own house, but rather as an honored guest, in 
whom each member held a certain amount of very pre- 
cious- property. His wife, a fair and faded woman, who 
reverenced her husband as a saint, and loved her children 
with more of devotion than her strict ideas of worship should 
have permitted, for this one day shared his. glory without 
stint. The throng of active, listening women that filled 
her house, persisted in lifting her on the same pedestal 
with her helpmate, there to be caressed and waited upon. 


256 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


For one day that dwelling was in the hands of the 
Church. The walls of each room were draped with 
evergreens and blossoming branches ; the white curtains 
were garlanded back from the windows ; the heavy beams 
that ran across each ceiling became massive wreaths 
glowing with flowers. Back of the house, a fine apple : or- 
chard covered one of those natural terraces which make 
the city of Norwich so beautiful. Here the birds were sing- 
ing vigorously, and hopping from limb to limb in a state 
of melodious excitement. They seemed to understand that 
a scene of that kind was not to be witnessed every day of 
the year, and resolved to make the most of it. 

Wagon after wagon was unloaded before the minister’s 
dwelling for an hour or so after the female committee 
had taken possession. First, the women and children de- 
scended, or were lifted to the ground ; then baskets were 
dragged out from under the seats and handed carefully to 
the deacons, who muttered deep thanksgiving for each gift 
as it came. It was wonderful, the variety of offerings 
presented at that door : masses of broadside pork, drip- 
ping with the brine from which they had been taken ; 
sacks of potatoes, pots of butter and fine round cheeses ; 
jars of preserves, rich with a taste of maple sugar, appeared. 
Then came chickens, with their legs tied together and 
struggling to be free ; sucking pigs shackled in like man- 
ner, but taking their thraldom philosophically, rooting in 
the bottom of the wagon when let alone, and only giving 
out a shrill squeal or two when pressed under the deacon’s 
arm, in a state of active transmigration to the minister’s 
pig-pen. 

Before sunset the minister was indeed blessed “ in his 
basket and his store.” His cellar was teeming with pro- 
visions ; quantities of yarn lay. heaped in the garret; 


THE MINISTER’S S P I N N I N G- B E E . 257 


strange hens cackled around the house, calling for mates 
that remained in the distant barn-yards ; a roll of new rag 
carpet stood in the passage. Indeed, the kind generosity 
of his brethren was visible everywhere. 

Among the last that drove up that day was Leonard 
and his family. Two milk-pails, covered with homespun 
napkins white as snow, were lifted from the wagon ; then 
came a little bundle of yarn, such as the delicate fingers 
of Amy alone could spin ; and at last appeared from un- 
der the front seat a bright, new milk-pan, from which the 
contents rounded up like an Indian mound, but could only 
be guessed at from under the glossy linen pinned smoothly 
over it. 

When all these valuables were lifted to the ground, Mrs. 
Leonard shook out the skirt of her chintz dress, and cast 
a look of righteous defiance around as she followed her 
husband into the house. She had seen the pails carried 
in, and stood waiting till the milk-pan was circled by his 
arms : then she took her line of march into the room in 
which the supper-table was laid out. 

The women, who composed the committee of arrange- 
ments, were busy about the table, arranging the various 
dishes and scattering glassesfull of flowers among them. 
There was a slight bustle when Mrs. Leonard came in, 
with her face in a glow, and her vigilant eyes searching 
the glances that invariably recoiled from hers. 

“ Here,” she said, unpinning the napkin, and lifting it be- 
tween her thumb and finger, while an enormous chicken-pie 
was revealed swelling up from the pan, — “here is a little of 
something for the table, sisters. Perhaps I expected that 
some of you might have given me an idea of what would 
be wanted most. You may have a dozen nicer pies than 
this ; but it ain’t my fault, anyhow.” 


258 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


As she spoke, Mrs. Leonard gave a triumphant glance 
over the table. Two or three pies were certainly there, 
but none with that faultless curve of crust, or the delicate 
bordering of key work on the edge.- In their flat founda- 
tions they looked mean and commonplace by the side of 
her portly offering. 

“ It isn’t any thing to boast of, I own that,” she said, 
glowing all over with her triumph ; “ but perhaps they’ll 
manage to worry it down if they get right hungry. Then 
you’ll find some doughnuts and what not in the pails ; but 
that’s of no consequence,” she added, giving her plump 
hand a magnificent wave towards the milk-pails. “ When 
one isn’t consulted about things it’s difficult knowing what 
to fix up. When we had a bee in this house before, I 
reckon folks knew what was wanted without being left to 
guess at it. ” 

The sisters of the committee looked askance at the mam 
moth pie and at each other. There was evidently some- 
thing wrong about Mrs. Leonard or her contribution, which 
they did not feel quite capable of managing. Her own self- 
praise took them by surprise. 

Finally, a gentle-voiced woman came forward and re- 
moved the pie to the head of the table, where the minister 
was to preside. Then, with a quiet glance at the sisters, 
she gathered up the glasses and broken mugs filled with 
flowers and placed them around it, forming a pavilion of 
flowers under which the mammoth pastry swelled up with 
luscious richness. 

This took Mrs. Leonard by surprise ; the color mounted 
to her forehead, and her plump lips began to quiver. 

“ Amy has a little present, too,” she said, striving to 
hide the hysterical emotion that was sending tears to 
her eyes. “ There may be finer yarn than she has spun 


THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE. 259 

for the minister brought in ; but I can’t quite believe it 
without seeing. You’ll find the bundle marked A. L. in 
the entry-way. But, Amy, daughter Amy, jest bring the 
diaper in here. Won’t you, Amy ?” 

She waited a little with her eyes on the door ; but it 
was some minutes before Amy Leonard came in, with a 
parcel in her hand. 

“ Here,” said Mrs. Leonard ; “here is. something that I 
defy anybody to say isn’t worth while. If I was on the 
committee, as I was years and years before this, my 
opinion ’d be worth something, maybe ; but as it is, I 
reckon you’ll find it tough work to match this ere piece 
of diaper in all Norwich, to say nothing of the hull State 
of Connecticut. Look-a-here now, if you please, every 
inch of it spun, and wove, and hetcheled, and carded by 
Amy’s own hands. There !” 

Mrs. Leonard had broken off now and then, to bite at 
the string which held the parcel that she took eagerly 
from her daughter, and began to unfold. When the last 
emphatic word left her lips, a square of pure linen fluttered 
out from her two hands and fell over the back of a chair, 
white and glossy as crusted snow. 

“ Yes, ladies, look : it’ll bear Examining ; the pattern is 
1 doors and winders ;’ the linen, — but then you have eyes 
and can see what that is for yourselves. The flax was 
raised in our home-lot at the back-door. When it was all 
in bloom, Amy used to look out and watch it a-bending 
under the wind, while the blue flowers went twinkle, 
twinkle, twinkle, in the sunshine, and the long, green 
stalks bent altogether in waves just as the water sweeps 
over a mill-dam. You never did see such flax ! some of 
it was a full yard and a-quarter long ; and so thick. Well, 
that sort of put the idea in my head ; the blue flowers 


260 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

always brought up Amy’s eyes when she said her prayers 
at my knee ; they looked up to heaven in the same inno- 
cent way. The poor girl has been a good deal out of 
sorts since then. I took an idea that she should weave 
some of that flax for the sarvice of the Lord ; she shirked 
up when I mentioned it ; and when Leonard got in the 
flax, the choice handfuls were laid aside for Amy. I raly 
think the child hasn’t smiled right heartily since last fall, 
except when she was doing this work. And now, that it’s 
all spread out afore you, ain’t this a cloth that will set 
out the table on communion days with edification to the 
members ?” 

Mrs. Leonard had capped the climax of her triumph 
here, and stood holding up a corner of the cloth daintily 
between her thumb and finger, challenging the whole 
society with her eyes to produce any thing like that. 
Amy had shrunk back, blushing painfully as the ladies of 
the committee turned their eyes from her mother to her, 
uncertain how to act or what to say. But at last the 
housewifely love of good linen overcame all othor feelings. 
They gathered around the table-cloth, examined its tex- 
ture, its whiteness, and its fringed edges, headed with 
triple rows of hemstitch, which made it the most perfect 
specimen of “ home-made” that they had ever seen. 

“ It’s a lovely piece of work, Mrs. Leonard, no wonder 
you are proud of it,” said the gentle sister, who had taken 
such generous charge of the pie. 

“ Proud ! me, proud ! Oh, nothing like it !” cried Mrs 
Leonard, smoothing down her dress, as if it had been 
plumage on which too much sunshine was falling. “ It’s 
only a humble offering, with good wishes wove in like a 
pattern, and whitened with dew, which, as the minister 
said , 1 falls like charity, and works, you can’t see how, but 


THE minister’s s p I n n I N G- b e e. 261 


like a blessing in the end.’ When that ’ere cloth is spread 
out on the communion-table, sisters, and the unleavened 
bread is set out on it, with pure wine in the silver tankard, 
then, sisters, perhaps you’ll be called on to remember one 
as has stood amongst you breast to breast, and worked 
hand to hand in every committee till this, when she’s for- 
gotten and left out ; not knowing why, and — and ” 

Here the good woman broke down, for her eyes and 
voice were so full of tears that she could not utter another 
word. 

The women who were examining the communion-cloth 
looked at each other perplexed, and a little conscience- 
stricken ; while Amy drew close to her mother, and stood 
with one hand slightly grasping the skirt of her dress as 
if wishing to draw her away. Without looking directly 
at her, the women knew that she was pale, and that her 
hand trembled like a leaf in its hold on the dress. 

“ Mother, oh, mother !” whispered the poor girl. 

“ Never mind,” cried Mrs. Leonard, winking the tears 
away with a quick motion of the eyelids, and lifting her 
head with a prompt resumption of dignity, — “ never mind, 
daughter, it isn’t no shame to have feelings, — quite the 
contrary ; but those as hasn’t any to be troubled with 
mayn’t understand ’em : so you’rp right. Perhaps the 
committee will tell us if your humble present’ll be accept- 
able ?” 

The women laid down the table cloth at this, and looked 
at one another without speaking a word. 

Then the same gentle Christian who had twice before 
shed her grace upon the scene, came forward, and, taking 
the cloth, began to fold it. 

“It is a free gift to the Lord,” she said, looking upon 
her sisters with sweet gravity : “ pure and beautiful, as 


262 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

sister Leonard says. It reminds us of old ties, and that 
all our acts should be done mercifully and in charity to 
each other. Amy Leonard, we thank you for this proof 
that you have not forsaken the society.” 

“ I !” gasped Amy, “ I ! No, no.” 

She was so white, and the look in her eyes so appeal- 
ing, that a sentiment of womanly compassion arose in the 
hearts of the committee. Then they murmured the thanks 
that had been withheld so long for what was certainly the 
most beautiful gift brought to the gathering that day. 

Amy heard them with, a crimson cheek and drooping 
eyes ; while Mrs. Leonard, ashamed of that outbreak of 
tears which had revealed the mortification at her heart, 
turned away, and went in search of some one whom she 
knew outside of the committee, whose demeanor was, on 
second thought, both strange and unsatisfactory to her 
frank nature. The looks they had cast at rather than 
upon, Amy ; the sort of compassionate way in which her 
gifts had been received, had a meaning which she could 
not fathom. She felt like an alien in the society of which 
she had been a leading member for years. 

Amy followed her mother in silence. Not a vestige of 
color was left on her face ; and she looked drearily around 
upon her old playmates and friends, as if afraid of them. 

The house being small, most of the minister’s guests 
made their way into the orchard, where a carpet of the 
freshest grass lay invitingly beneath the tent-like trees. 
It was a lovely sight, the thick, green foliage, through 
which glimpses of the sky broke in gleams of azure and 
sunshine ; the fruit, just out of blossom, studding the 
leaves ; and the riot of bird-songs trembling up through 
the branches made it enchanting. Through all this the 
guests wandered pleasantly, carrying their innocent en- 


THE minister’s S P I N N I N G - B E E . 263 

joyment everywhere, as the sons of Adam might have 
thronged Eden had no sin driven them forth to work and 
suffer. Here and there whole families were grouped 
beneath the branches : the women, in their scarlet short 
cloaks and gorgeous dresses, forming pictures all uncon- 
sciously from the natural positions into which they fell, 
and from a strong contrast of colors : the men filling up 
each idea with their picturesque strength. 

As Mrs. Leonard and her daughter descended into the 
orchard, they saw nothing but old friends and neighbors 
passing them, or grouped under the trees ; yet no one 
came near them ; and, instead of the eager gestures by 
which others were invited to join this party or another, 
they were permitted to walk down the footpath to its ter- 
mination without being addressed by more than a distant 
inquiry after their health. 

“ I wonder,” said Mrs. Leonard, leaning against the 
rail-fence as they reached the foot of the orchard, — “ I 
wonder where Mrs. Arnold can be ? Have you seen 
Hannah anywhere about, Amy ?” 

“ Ho, mother,” answered Amy, in a very low voice. 

“ Nor any of the Arnolds ? That’s strange. I wisn 
we could find some of the old friends. Oh, here comes 
Hagar !” 

Amy lifted her heavy eyes and saw Hagar in the next 
field, coming toward the orchard, with a heavy basket on 
her arm. She saw Mrs. Leonard and Amy by the fence, 
and made toward them. 

“ So heah you is, Miss Leonard, ’joying yerself like 
de rest on ’em. Sakes alive ! what a heap of people 1 
Well, how do ye do to hum ?” 

Hagar made these inquiries while she lifted a basket, 


264 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

which she had carried on her arm, to the fence, where she 
balanced it before attempting to mount the rails. 

“Now,” she said, descending on the other side, and 
setting her basket on the grass, “ I’m just tired out a- 
worrying along with this basket all the way from hum. 
If it hadn’t been for the credit of the family I wouldn’t 
a come, nohow.” 

“ But isn’t Miss Arnold a-coming ?” questioned Mrs. 
Leonard. 

Hagar drew close to her, and answered, in a low, con- 
fidential voice : 

“ I know you’re a friend to de family, Miss Leonard, 
and so I can speak out, for once. Miss Arnold, nor 
Hannah, nor de old man, nor nobody, is cornin’ here 
’cept myself ; and I got away supersticiously. Dar 
dey are, working ’way for dear life, just as if nothin’ 
was goin’ on. Don’t say a word ’bout it, Miss Leonard, 
but de goin’s-on at de farm is enough to break yer 
heart, and nobody seems ter mind it but me. Not a hank 
of yarn nor a yard of cloth went out of d£t house for de 
minister’s bee. No butter, no nothin’. Gracious knows 
what hab come over de folks. Everyting sold dat can 
be raked and scraped. Scrimping here, scrimping dar, 
and all cornin’ on at once. It’s no use. I can’t under- 
stand it.” 

“ Then Mrs. Arnold isn’t coming, Hagar ?” 

“No. She’s settin’ thar in de house, meek as Moses, 
allowin’ de hull family to be disgraced, as it would . be 
but for me ; but all ’long I’ve kinder ’spected what ed 
come, and took steps agin it. So when the eggs came in 
from de barn, and de butter was put ’way to sell, I’ve 
kinder took a little and hid away for dis ’casion. 

Last night I sot up and had a bakin’ all to myself, and 


THE MINISTEK’S SPINNING-BEE. 265 

de eullered pusson as tinks it a pribilege to help me 
’stain the character of de family. So here’s a few biscuit 
and a crock of butter, wid a dozen eggs, and a little jar 
of peach preserves, which de committee will just take in 
and sabe us from ’tarnal disgrace. I didn’t say nothin’ 
’bout it to Miss Arnold, only axed to come ober and see 
how tings went on. But she ’spected, I reckon ; for sez 
she, ‘ Yes, Hagar ; and gib de minister’s family my best 
lub, and tell ’em dat our hearts are wid de society if 
we ain’t dere in pusson.’ Den Hannah, she run up- 
stairs, and come down wid some yarn socks as she’d 
been a-knitting, wid dese ere piller-cases, and tow’ls, 
and sez she, ‘ Hagar,’ sez she, ‘ dese is mine, and dere 
can’t be no harm in gibin’ ’em to de minister : it seems 
hard not to send any ting.’ Den I jest lifted de kiver 
from dis ’ere basket and gib her a peep, at which she 
shook her head, blushing up ; and, sez she, 1 Oh, Hagar !’ 
and says I, * Trust one pusson to take care of de reperta- 
tion of dis old homestead. It ain’t a-goin’ to sink no 
lower now, I tell yer.’” 

“ But what is it all about ?” inquired Mrs. Leonard, 
surprised by this insight into the management of her 
neighbor’s household. “ What has happened ? Mr. 
Arnold is well to do in the world/ Why shouldn’t he ” 

“ Oh, don’t ax nothin’ of me 1” cried Hagar, breaking 
in with a wave of the hand. “ My ’pinyun is, dat when 
you choke off one wickedness, somepin’ mean and sneak- 
in’ is sartin to creep inter its place. I say nothin’ ; but 
if a man must drink or scrimp, let him drink, — let him 
drink.” 

“But you have done pretty well, Hagar,” said Amy, 
putting in her gentle voice, and lifting her sweet eyes to 
the face of her o\d frieud. “ Nobody can complain that 


266 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


you have not brought enough, especially with dear Han- 
nah’s linen.” 

“ Yes, young missus, dar it is. But why should dat 
chile.be ’bliged to gib up dem beautiful piller-cases as 
was sot aside for her settin’ out, only ’cause every ting 
is sold out of de house afore it comes in ? Miss Arnold 
was raally cut up ’bout it, and sez she, ‘ Hannah, dat linen 
has been in de family so long, hadn’t you better tink it 
over a little V I raally felt sorry for de missus when she 
said dis, she seemed so down-hearted ; but, Hannah, she 
blushed like a rosy, and sez she, 

“ 4 Never mind, mudder, it won’t be of much consekence, 
you know. Any settin’ out I can hab isn’t likely to count 
wid him.’ 

“ I ’clare, Miss Leonard, you neber seen a face so red as 
hers was when she gib her mudder dis answer ; a holly- 
hock’s nothin’ to it.” 

“ But who did she mean, Hagar ? Who could she mean 
by he ?” cried Mrs. Leonard, eagerly, plunging with all her 
soul into the gossip with which the slave was ripe. 

“ Who ! why goodness gracious ! Who but he dat is 
ridin’ along de road yonder as independent as a wood- 
sawyer. Did you eber ! Speak ob de debble, and he’s 
martin to come, — dat’s a Scripter sayin’, and de truf, if 
truf eber was preached. Yes, dar he turns up de road 
to de homestead, — yes, yes ; he’s ’ginning to canter now, 
in a mighty hurry to get dar ; and she wid nothin’ but 
her ruffled shortgown and blue petticoat on. Oh, massy, 
what a fuss dar will be !” 

As Mrs. Leonard and Amy turned their eyes down the 
road where a horseman was riding, full gallop, towards the 
Arnold farm, Hagar gathered up her basket and marched 
off towards the house, muttering, 


THE MINISTER’S SPINNING-BEE. 267 


“ What a fix dey will be in ! nothin’ ready, and Hagar 
gone. Well, I’ll just ’deem de character ob de family as 
I ’longs to, and go hum. Sure ’nuff, she looks purty 
as a pink in dat white shortgown ; and mebby she’ll see 
him a-comin’ time enough to slick up in her best: but 
when dis chile is ’way from hum, dar’s no calkerlating 
what may tuim up.” 

“Who is it?” inquired Mrs. Leonard, looking after 
the horseman. “ Who can it be ? Not Benedict !” 

A scream almost broke from Amy’s lips. She clung to 
the fence, holding herself up by both hands, and searching 
the road, with her great, wild eyes. 

“ No !” she said, dropping down to the grass again with 
a sigh that was half a moan. “ It — it is the French gen- 
tleman.” 

“Now,” exclaimed Mrs. Leonard, glowing proudly 
with a new discovery, — “now I’ll bet two cookies, that 
I understand the whole thing. The Frenchman is 
arter Hannah Arnold, and that’s what kept him and 
his sister so long at the farm last winter. I knew 
from the fust there was nothing between him and the 
gal, or her feathers. What fools we have been not to 
think of this long ago !” 

“Do you think so, mother ?” said Amy, With a wild 
light in her eyes. 

“ Do I think so ! Why, isn’t it as clear as crystal ? The 
Frenchman is rich as all out-doors, and that would be 
enough for Ben, who loves money better than his life. 
Besides, that accounts for all the pinching and saving that 
Hagar tells about. The Arnolds want to give their only 
daughter a setting-out worth while, and I like ’em for it. 
These French people shouldn’t have all the glory on their 
side.” 


268 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Mother, this man will have seen Benedict. He — he 
can tell us something,” said Amy, . grasping nervously at 
her mother’s dress. “ We shall hear, — we shall be sure 
to hear.” 

“ Yes, yes ; we’ll ride round that way and have a chat 
with the Arnolds.” 

“ You and father,— yes, that will be best. But I will 
walk towards home.” 

“ No. What would be the use ? You that can’t walk 
a rod without getting out of breath.” 

“ But, mother, I cannot go to the farm !” 

“ Well, well, your father will manage it in the morning 
for us. There’s no hurry.” 

Amy gasped for breath, evidently unable to utter the 
wishes that struggled in her bosom. 

“ Come, come. Don’t look so down-hearted,” said the 
mother, cheerfully. “ Perhaps we’ll all go over to tea 
while he’s here.” 

A low moan broke from Amy’s lips, but she did not 
speak again ; and her mother moved on quite unconscious 
of the agitation that shook that young frame and blanched 
her face till it was sad to look upon. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

NEWS AT LAST. 

Mrs. Leonard and her daughter went into the house 
again, where the minister met them with his grave and 
pleasant welcome. Mrs. Leonard was not gifted with that 


NEWS AT LAST. 


269 


keen sensibility which would have discovered something 
unusual in his manner ; and Amy was too much occupied 
with the wild thoughts crowding upon her to heed any 
thing that required close observation. 

While her mother was talking with the minister, and 
giving side thrusts at the committee after her prompt fash 
ion, Amy stole away and searched the thronging company 
till she found herself in the kitchen, to which Hagar had 
betaken herself. 

Several of the committee were busy in this wing of the 
house ; and Hagar, after depositing her donation, was en- 
gaged in explaining why no other member of the Arnold 
family was present. 

u Yer see, our folks has been ’specting company ebber 
so long, and dere’s been no end ter de baking, and scrub- 
bin’ and sich like as has been undertook on dat account. 
De little offerin’ as I has de pleasure to descent is jest 
what we could pick up in a hurry from de ’bundance ob de 
’casion. As for de piller-cases and sich like, my young 
missus jest sent ’em to satisfy de sisters dat dey wasn’t 
forgot, and never would be in any grand fortune dat might 
fall ter her ; but circumstances ob a delicate natur, which 
nobody was to speak ob on no ’count, had kep’ her away 
from de spinnin’-wheel and loom, so she only sent what 
was handy in order to ’spress her good will.” 

Those who listened to Hagar had no idea that her gran- 
diloquence was assumed in order to cover what she keenly 
felt to be the poverty of her donation. And they were a 
good deal impressed by the hints of present abundance 
and coming greatness, which she threw out on the strength 
of her own vague conjectures alone. But all this gave 
Amy a gleam of comfort, as it went to prove the truth of 
her mother’s belief regarding the young Frenchman and 


270 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Hannah Arnold. . She stole timidly behind Hagar, and, 
whispering that she wished to speak with her in the or- 
chard, went away and waited by the path till her humble 
friend should come out. She had no inclination to join 
any of the young people who were roaming under the 
rees, but walked along the outskirts of the orchard, peer- 
ing anxiously through the branches for fear that Hagar 
might pass without seeing her. 

After a little she saw the slave with her empty basket 
coming through the back-door of the house and descend- 
ing the footpath. With a quickened breath the young 
creature glided along by the fence, and stood in the path 
just where it crossed into a neighboring lot. 

“ Hagar !” 

“ Wal, what am it, young missus ? Jest speak out, for 
Pse in a hurry to get hum.” 

“ Hagar !” 

“Wal, agin ; what am it ?” 

This time Hagar spoke a little impatiently, and cast 
eager glances at the fence, as if she longed to be over. 

“ Nothing, Hagar. Don’t be impatient. Only I, — I 
should like to hear from the people in New Haven.” 

“ What, yer cousin ?” 

“ No ; she is well enough. But this French gentleman, 
— is he really going to marry Hannah ? You can trust 
me, Hagar ; I won’t breathe it to a mortal soul.” 

“ Why, how arnest you seem ’bout it. Yes ; ’member 
I don’t speak from a dead sartinty, but it’s my bleef dat 
it’ll be a match, and dat ’fore long, too. Why dis is four 
time he’s been here since Christmas.” 

“ The fourth time ! Ah, me, and I never knew it, — 
never dreamed that there was any chance of hearing from 
him i” murmured Amy, with suppressed tears. 


NEWS AT LAST. 


271 


“ Hearin’ from him ! What does yer mean by him ?” 

“ Benedict, you know, Hagar. I haven’t heard a sylla- 
ble about him for months ; and, — and we used to go to 
school together. Don’t you remember it, Hagar, — Bene- 
dict, and Hannah, and I ?” 

*f Yes,” said Hagar, looking hard at the fence, and press- 
ing her thick lips together, “yes ; I ’member ’bout it sure 
’nuff. ” 

“ Ah, I knew you would, good Hagar ! And how we 
all went blackberrying together, ever so long ago ; you 
went to take care of us. ” 

“ Yes ; I ’member ’bout dat, too. And how when Ben 
had eat up his berries, — he was an orful greedy critter, 
our Ben, — you’d go and pour de blackberries out of yer 
own basket and fill his’n up to de brim. Many a scoldin’ 
you’ve got for cornin’ hum short, when dat big boy got 
credit for yer work. Yes, yes ; I ’member more’n people 
tink, p’r’aps.” 

“ Then you remember that I always loved you, Ha- 
gar ?” 

“Yes, yes ; I don’t deny nuthin’ ob dat,” answered the 
slave, casting tender glances at the agitated girl. 

“ And how I flung a big stone at the snake that wanted 
to bite you ?” pleaded Amy. 

“Wal, it allers kinder seemed ter me as if dat snake 
would a-made for our Ben if he’d been let ’lone ; but de 
way yer went at him was clear grit, anyhow. Yes, yes ; 
one don’t forget a ting like dat in a hurry.” 

“ Well, then, Hagar, you know one never forgets an old 
schoolfellow. And I’ve a great favor to ask, Hagar; you 
won’t refuse it, promise that ?” persisted the poor young 
girl, all in a shiver of excitement. 

“Wal, now, I don’t know ’bout dat ; jest gib an idee ob 


272 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

what it is,” said Hagar, pursing up her mouth and turning 
her head on one side. 

Amy grew desperate. She clasped her hands hard 
together under her short cloak, and spoke out rapidly, as 
one talks in a fever, 

“ I want to hear from him, my old school-fellow, Ben- 
edict Arnold, and nobody tells me a word. This young 
Frenchman has seen him, I am sure. Perhaps he brings a 
letter, or something. He would think it strange if I 
asked ; but you can find out what I want to know, — all 
about him, Hagar, — if he is well, — what he is doing, — if 
he ever talks of his old friends in Norwich. And ask, dear, 
dear Hagar, if he — that is, if this young French gentle 
man’s sister is in New Haven yet ? Perhaps she’s gone, and 
married to some nobleman by this time. I hope so. Don’t 
you, Hagar ? Nothing but a grand, rich man would be a 
match for her, you know. Will you ask these questions 
now, just as if you wanted to know about him for your 
own self? I wouldn’t ask it, but I haven’t another friend 
in the wide, wide world that can help me. Only you, 
Hagar, — only you.” 

There was something so pathetic in the girl’s voice, and 
in the pleading of her look, that Hagar began to sniff the 
air and wink her eyelids violently, — a sure sign that she 
would have liked to cry, but had resolved to maintain her- 
self against every attack of weakness. 

“ You’ll do this for me, Hagar ?” 

“ Why, ob course I will. What’s de use of making sich 
a touze all ’bout nothin’ ! I tort you was a-going ter 
ask me to take some trouble. Wal, now, don’t go to cry- 
in’. Next time I come across you, see if I don’t tell all 
’bout dem New Haven folks.” 


NEWS AT LAST. 273 

“ Oh, not till then ? Ask the moment you get home. 
Come back here and tell me, — I cannot wait.” 

“ What, here ? Me come back ? What on arth has got 
Inter de gal ?” 

“ Oh, Hagar ! I am' so anxious, — my heart aches so. 
Dear soul, go, — go quick ! Who knows what good new T s 
you will bring ? Don’t look at me in that way, — but 
have a little pity !” 

“But I can’t do it, — thar ! The tea’s to be got.” 

“ Ah, now you are cross, Hagar. You are like all the 
rest, and want to put me away.” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“ But you see how anxious I am, and won’t come back 
to help me. Look here, old friend, I’ve got four silver 
shillings in this purse. Only find out what I want and come 
right back ; you shall take them now. I can trust you.” 

“No, I won’t ! Put the puss back into yer busom. 
Amy. I ain’t so white as some folks, but — wal, neber 
mind, — good-by ! ’Fore sunset you’ll find me here in de 
crook of dis fence as large as life.” 

Amy smiled one of her old, sunny smiles, that gave 
back the lost beauty to her face. As Hagar was mount- 
ing the fence, she seized her by the dress. 

“ Oh, Hagar, you are so kind 1 Perhaps it will be 
good news that you bring. If Hannah is married soon, 
he may come to the wedding. If he does, — if they tell 
you that, Hagar, I’ll give you the gold ear-rings grand- 
mother left me, — all pure gold, and as large and round as a 
crown piece. Don’t shake your head. Oh, I shall be so 
glad to give them to you. But do hurry back.” 

“Well, well, let me go then. I’ll be back soon enough. 
Not for the ear-rings, but— but ” 

Amy did not hear the rest, for the negress walked off 
,17 


274 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

with long strides till the trees hid her from sight. Twice 
she looked back, but only to see those wild, mournful 
eyes following her, — oh, so anxiously. 

After she got out of sight, Hagar began to walk more 
heavily. Then she stood still, as if struck by some over- 
powering thought, staggered with the pain of it for a 
moment, and sat down on a stump by the wayside, where 
she burst into a hearty cry. At last she got up, wiped 
her face with a corner of her cotton shawl, and went 
towards home. 

“ Yes,” she muttered. “ I’ll stand by her troo 
tick and tin, and so shall ebbry cullered pusson as wants 
de honor ob my ’quaintance. Let de white folks peck 
her to death if dey’ve a mind to ; but as for me, — wall, 
it's wicked to cuss anybody ; but de blood riles right up 
from de bottom ob my berry heart when I tink dat 
young feller was broughten up under de same roof wid a 
’spectable pusson like me, nussed at his mudder’s bussum 
like any udder baby.” 

Thus muttering to herself, Hagar went on her way 
home. Amy watched by the fence so long as a glimpse 
could be caught of her gorgeous calico dress. Then she 
went back to the house with something of animation in 
her face. For two hours she could not expect Hagar 
back again. Meantime she must hide herself in the 
orchard, or join with the crowd. The voice of her mother 
calling her decided the question. She went into the 
house with a faint glow on her cheek ; for, at her age, 
hope is quick to revive, trample its bright blossoms down 
as you will. 

“ Yes, yes. He has been waiting for this to happen. 
At his sister’s wedding all will be well.” Thus she half- 
murmured, half-thought, on her way up the orchard. 


NEWS AT LAST. 


275 


Under one of the vast tent-like trees nearest the house, 
a rustic table was being spread for the young folks. Here 
a bevy of fair girls was busy, darting in and out under the 
branches and through the back-door, eagerly spreading 
the feast. One of the girls called to Amy as she went up 
the footpath. 

“ Amy ! Amy Leonard ! You lazy thing ! Come and 
help set the table. What on earth are you about ?” 

A quick thrill ran through that young heart. She was 
not avoided. That was all a fancy. The girls loved her 
as well as ever. Amy turned, with the glow of these 
thoughts on her face, and joined the innocent revelers. 

“ I am sorry. True enough : why should one play and 
the rest work ? Thank you, Nancy Clark. Now, what 
shall I set about first ?” 

* “ Go and coax your mother to send out some of her 
nice things for us. It isn’t fair for them to take every 
thing for the minister’s table.” 

“Yes, yes; I’ll do it,” cried Amy, grateful for this 
cheering notice. 

“Hunt up a pitcher, Amy, and hook some of their 
roses, if you get a chance. We’ll have a flower-pot that’ll 
take theirs down, mind that.” 

“ I left some hemlock-tops and lots of flowers in the 
wagon,” said Amy, running off. 

Directly she came back with her arms full of evergreens 
and branches of forest flowers, with garlands of ground 
pine trailing on the grass as she walked. The young 
girls set up a shout as she appeared half-buried in masses 
of green foliage. 

“ Oh, come on J” cried Nancy Clark, flinging the 
branches Amy had cast at her feet right and left. “ Here’s 
oceans of flowers. We’ll have a border all around the 


76 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


• 

table-cloth, and flower-pots at both ends. Work away ! 
work away ! ” 

There was instant and joyous obedience to this behest. 
Every hand was at work twining flowers among the green 
spray, and weaving garlands that, united together, soon 
formed a sumptuous wreath around the white drapery 
of the table. 

“ Now,” cried Nancy Clark, crowding masses of flowers 
into a great stone pitcher half sunk in the grass, “ some 
one come help me lift this to its place, and then we shall 
pull an even yoke with the best of 'em ” 

A dozen hands were ready to aid her, and directly a 
glowing bower of wild blossoms marked one end of the 
festal board. * 

“ Now, who is to ask a blessing ? The minister says 
we may choose any one we like. Which shall it be, — Dr. 
Blake or Amy Leonard’s father ?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Leonard ! Mr. Leonard ! Amy’s father. 
Didn’t she bring the flowers ?” 

The tears sprang to Amy’s eyes. It was sweet to be 
called out of her terrible depression by this warm-hearted 
clamor. 

“ Why, look at Amy ! Only think, she’s crying !” said 
one of the girls. 

“ No, I’m not. It was because this kindness came so 
suddenly. Then there’s Dr. Blake.” 

“ Well, well,” cried Nancy Clark, who was a charming 
leader in every thing, “ Mr. Leonard shall ask the blessing, 
and Dr. Blake can return thanks.” 

“ Yes, yes. Nancy’s hit the mark this time. Now 
hurry up, hurry up, or the old folks’ll get ahead of us !” 
was the general cry. 

It was one of the prettiest sights in the world, — that 


NEWS AT LAST. 


277 


crowd of blooming girls, hurrying to and fro in eager 
haste to keep up with their elders. Now and then a 
grave matron would step to the door-stone and take a 
survey of the scene, affecting a little jealousy, and ventur- 
ing on a demure rebuke of so much mirth ; but this only 
checked the laughter for a moment, and the noise went on 
again. 

“ There now, the young fellers are beginning to come l” 
cried Nancy, all in a flutter, and speaking below her 
breath. “ I saw a hull wagon-load get out as I stopped 
in the entry- way. How they are all fixed up ! Tim 
Johnson’s got a red ribbon to his cue, and such bright 
buckles in his shoes. Oh, goodness !” 

“ Hush, husli ! they’re coming !” whispered half a dozen 
voices at once, and there was a general flutter of expecta- 
tion, by which the birds overhead were entirely distanced. 

It was some minutes before the young men ventured to 
mingle freely with the girls ; but their shyness soon wore 
off, and it was rather difficult to suppress them into dec- 
orous silence, when Mr. Leonard and Dr. Blake come 
forward to preside at their portion of the festival. While 
Leonard, with his fine, frank face beaming with tranquil 
happiness, was uttering his rather lengthy blessing in the 
orchard, the minister was equally sententious over the 
great pie in the best room within. Directly ‘there was 
such a hum and clatter all around the minister’s dwelling, 
such passing of dainties and interchange of smiles, that 
the birds gave up and stopped singing for the day, feel- 
ing themselves quite lost and overpowered in the general 
hilarity. 

In the midst of this charming riot, Amy, who was 
thrown back into her anxiety the moment she had nothing 
to work at, began to cast furtive glances down the foot- 


278 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


path. It was scarcely time for Hagar to come, but the 
sickness of suspense grew strong upon her, and at last 
she stole from the table and made her way down the 
orchard. 

When she reached the fence, Hagar was in sight, walk- 
ing at a great pace. The kind slave checked her pace 
at the sight of Amy, and came heavily towards her. 

“ Oh, Hagar !” 

It was all her white lips could utter. Hagar saw the 
anguish of expectation in her face, and looked away. 

“ Have you nothing to tell me, Hagar ?” 

Oh, the heart-broken tone ! It cut Hagar to the soul. 

“ No, miss. Yer see I hadn’t much chance to ax 
’bout any ting. Miss Hannah and her beau started right 
off, and I kinder walked ’long.” 

“ Hannah and her beau ? Are they here ?” 

“ Yes. Dey came on ahead.” 

“ And you have nothing to tell me ?” 

“No, I — I— in course Miss Hannah will hab de news, 
so it wasn’t Worth while for me to wait.” 

“ And I must ask for it there, among all those people ! 
Oh, what can I do ? How can I speak ?” 

She was looking in terror toward the house, afraid to 
go there, but unable to wait. A moment of keen struggle, 
and she started away, clenching her hands and pressing 
ner lips harder at each step. 

“ Amy ! Miss Amy ! come back ! I’m a sneakin’ 
coward to let you go and hear it ’mongst ’em all. Amy 
Leonard, come back, I say !” 

But Amy was too far off. Hagar’s voice mingled with 
the noises that filled the orchard, and the poor child 
entered the house, wild and panting. 

The supper-room was crowded. Mrs. Leonard sat 


NEWS AT LAST. 


279 


near the minister, who had twice warmed her heart by 
praises of the chicken-pie. Hannah Arnold stood near, 
looking flushed and anxious, like one who had just tasted 
something of bitterness dashed into a cup of joy while at 
her lips. She had looked around for Amy, on her first 
entrance to the room, and, with a sense of relief at finding 
her absent, was now talking in a low voice to the 
minister’s wife. Amy struggled up to where they were 
standing ; but they had drawn close to the table, and she 
only found a place between them and the wall. Thus 
they remained unconscious of her presence. 

“ Is not this unexpected news about your brother ?” the 
minister’s wife was half whispering. “ We had no idea 
that he was paying serious attentions to the young lady. 
Indeed, we thought ” 

Hannah broke in upon the words before they were ut- 
tered. She could not endure to hear what was the 
general expectation. It was a wound to her delicate 
friendship for Amy to have her name mentioned in the 
conversation. 

“ Yes, it was sudden ; but perhaps we ought not to be 
surprised at it. She is a very lovely person.” 

“ When will the wedding come off?” 

The minister’s wife spoke in a low voice, and Hannah 
answered still more subduedly. 

“ Next week. We are all going to New Haven, and 
you must not be surprised if I, — that is, if it is a double 
wedding. He insists upon it.” 

“ What ! her brother ? Oh ! I understand.” 

That instant Hannah felt a hand grasp her arm, — a 
hand so cold that it chilled her ; and a whisper that made 
her breath come quick, seemed to pass into her heart. 


280 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Hannah, is it Benedict who is going to marry soma 
one ?” 

For a moment Hannah’s lips refused to move. Then 
she bent her head to the pale face looking over her shoul- 
der, and answered. 

“ Yes, dear Amy.” 

A moment, and the cold hand clutched her arm like a 
vice ; then a heavy weight fell against her, and, turning 
quickly, she caught Amy in her arms. 

Help me to get her out,” she said, in a hoarse whisper, 
addressing the minister’s wife. “ Oh, what can I do ?” 

The good woman passed her arm around the sinking 
girl, and the two, without noise or outcry, bore Amy into 
the passage ; but the movement could not be altogether 
concealed. Some one who saw the white face drooping 
on Hannah’s shoulder called out. 

“ Doctor ! Ho ! Dr. Blake.” 

The sound ran through those chill veins like fire. Amy 
lifted her head, gave one wild look around, and sprang 
away. 

A dusky sunset filled the orchard ; but the young 
people enjoying themselves under the trees, saw a pale 
creature flitting through them so swiftly that no one, at 
first, recognized her ; then a careless voice observed. 

“ It is Amy Leonard. How strangely she acts to-day !” 
and she was forgotten again. 

As Hagar stood by the fence, this white face came to- 
wards her, veered on one side, and, with a desperate 
scramble, crossed the fence. 

“ Amy ! Amy Leonard, it is only me, yer friend, yer 
best friend till death. Come to Hagar ! Come to Hagar.” 

But the figure darted on, faster and faster, and the 
darkness fell around it 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


♦ 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 

While the assembly within the minister’s house was in 
that wild state which follows an event which no one thor- 
oughly understands, Joshua Leonard came in from the or- 
chard, where he had been superintending a swing on which 
some of the little folks had been amusing themselves, till 
the twinkle of a star or two between the apple-tree boughs 
warned them that night was coming on. 

As the strong man came in anxious glances were cast 
upon him, and the whispers that had been running from 
group to group were hushed. 

“Ah,” he said, all in a glow of cheerfulness, won from 
his kindly exercise among the children, “it takes us young 
folks to enjoy ourselves ! How can you all mope here ?” 

No one answered, but the guests looked at each other 
wi£h significant glances, and broke up into pairs, gliding 
away from his path. 

“ Where is Amy and the old woman ?” he inquired, 
without much heeding this constraint among his friends. 
“ It’s getting nigh on time to go home, I reckon.” 

No one answered him. But that moment Dr. Blake 
came out of the little room which everybody knew as the 
minister’s study, and, laying his hand on Leonard’s arm, 
drew him in and closed the door. 

The minister was sitting by a little table, from which 

281 


282 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


many a score of sermons, with innumerable heads, had 
been given to the people. A single candle shed its light 
on his face, which was more than grave, and he looked to- 
wards the door with a troubled eye as Leonard entered. 

“ What is this ?” said the mill owner, somewhat bewil- 
dered by the gloom which filled the little apartment. “ Oh, 
you wish a reckoning of accounts. Very good. We have 
all given in our contributions, and here is a list set down 
with a pencil. Short reckonings make long friends ; it 
won’t take more than half an hour, anyway.” 

The minister looked at Blake imploringly. He had no 
courage to execute the task imposed on him ; the uncon- 
sciousness, the easy confidence of Leonard’s manner went 
to his heart. It was like dealing a death-blow between 
the eyes of a Newfoundland dog while looking trustfully 
in your face. 

“Be it so,” said Dr. Blake, in answer to this mute ap- 
peal ; and in after days he spoke of this as the greatest 
trial of his life. “ Be it so. I will speak to brother Leon- 
ard, and may the Lord of Hosts be with him and bear him 
up.” 

“ Amen !” whispered the minister, shading his eyes with 
a hand that shook in the candle-light. 

“ What is this ?” cried Leonard, becoming alarmed. 
“ What has befallen ? Any thing to our Amy ? any thing 
to her mother ?” 

“ Sit down,” answered the minister, softly ; “ sit down, 
brother. ” 

Leonard sat down as he was requested, looking first at 
his friend, then at the minister, in a stern, questioning way, 
for he began to feel that there was something terribly 
wrong. 

The doctor sat down also, but it was some moments be» 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 283 

fore he could speak. At last, with all his manhood, he 
was able to utter a single word only. 

“ Brother !” 

Leonard turned his honest, questioning eyes on his 
friend. 

“ Brother, I begin to wish we had spoken of this before. 
It is hard to bring trouble on an old friend.” 

“ If there is trouble for me, doctor, speak out. I hope 
I can bear it with patience. God has been merciful to me 
hitherto. Shall I not take his crosses as well as his bless- 
ings. So long as the woman and her child are not smit 
ten, I can bear any thing.” 

“ But it is through your child that this trouble comes. 
God help and forgive her !” 

“ Forgive her, — my child, — our Amy ! What has she 
done ? Oh, brother, tell me, what has she done ?” 

Dr. Blake shrunk away from the wild questioning of 
those eyes. The minister shaded his face with one pale 
hand, while he reached forth the other and grasped that 
of Leonard, which lay half clenched upon the table. 

“ Speak to me, — speak to me ! I can bear this no 
longer,” cried the poor father. 

The minister bent down his head, grasped the hand 
which began to struggle and shake, with both his, and be- 
gan to speak in a low, rapid voice, like one who fears to 
stop lest his breath or courage should fail. 

It was terrible to watch that strong man as the story 
of his daughter’s disgrace was unfolded to him : the white- 
ness of death crept slowly over his noble face ; his hand 
grew cold as ice ; drops of anguish stole out on his broad 
forehead and stood there like globules of ice. But he lis- 
tened in silence. That which the society had known long 
he heard at last,— how Arnold had been at his house even- 


284 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


ing after evening, alone with his daughter while he was 
at lectures and prayer-meetings, — how, but why go into 
the harrowing details of his disgrace, of her terrible 
downfall ? 

“ And now,” said the minister, with tears in his eyes, 
“ now we can delay no longer. We had hoped that some- 
thing might have prevented the painful steps we are now 
compelled to take.” 

Leonard did not speak, but a terrible anguish smould- 
ered in his eyes. 

“ She is a member of our society. Without confession 
and atonement no sinner can remain in communion with 
God’s people.” 

The shudder that crept through that strong frame made 
the table on which the unhappy father leaned tremble vis- 
ibly : a low groan broke from his lips. 

“ We have been forbearing, — we have prayed for you, 
wept for you, brother Leonard ; nay, against such evidence 
have been resolutely unbelieving in the poor child’s actual 
guilt. We were fain to believe that a secret marriage had 
taken place somewhere ; but now certain news comes that 
the young man is about to wed another person.” 

Leonard started and looked up with a sharp, burning 
glance. The minister understood it, and answered sadly, 

“ Yes, news came to-night that Benedict Arnold is about 
to marry the young French woman who spent last Thanks- 
giving at his father’s house.” 

Here Leonard started to his feet, dashed the minister’s 
hand from him. and turned his white face upon Dr. Blake. 
Then the agony that tore him broke forth. 

“ Is this thing true ?” 

“ I have feared it long, known it of a surety during the 
last two weeks,” answered the doctor. 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 


285 


Leonard strode towards the door, then came suddenly 
back, and, leaning hard on the table with both hands, 
spoke to the minister. 

“ Wait, — have a little patience before you bring the 
young critter that was my child into the broad aisle for 
public scorn. She will not stand there alone. I call on 
you both to witness that I, Joshua Leonard, have been a 
God-fearing man since the beard was black on my chin ; 
but if this young man crosses my path I must kill him !” 

“ Brother !” almost shrieked the minister, trembling in 
all his limbs at the whirlwind of human passion that 
rushed by him. 

“Joshua Leonard,” cried the doctor, in a voice of stern 
rebuke, seizing the hand that Leonard lifted heavily from 
the table as he ceased speaking, “have you forgotten that 
vengeance belongeth to God ?” 

He might as well have grasped an iron gauntlet, tor any 
response that hand gave to his, or have argued with a 
whirlwind when it tears an oak up by the roots. The bo- 
som tempter that had dwelt with that man, almost unsus- 
pected from his birth up, had been his pride, — the strong, 
inborn pride that had its growth in a vigorous, independ- 
ent nature. Now they were tearing it up root and branch, 
and rebuked him that he struggled against the tempest 
that was to make his heart a desert. After a time “ the 
still small voice ” would whisper through all this whirl of 
passion, but it was not yet. 

Again he strode to the door and opened it. There, 
upon the other side, he found his wife, her cheeks crimson 
and wet with tears that she was trying to wipe dry with 
a gorgeous silk handkerchief, while she indignantly refused 
the consolation which half a dozen of the sisters were 
offering. 


2-86 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Come, Joshua, come home. This isn’t the place for 
you and I. There’s neither charity, nor truth, nor the 
milk of human kindness anywhere for us and ours. No, 
sisters, don’t speak ; I know what I’m a-saying, and stand 
by it. You’re slanderers, unbelievers, blasphemers ! Do 
you hear ? Yes, you are ; for she, my Amy, — our Amy, 
Joshua, — is innocent and good as a little child, and of 
such is the kingdom of heaven — there ! Come, Joshua, 
come, husband. It’s high time to be a-going when hu- 
man beings can say what these sisters have been trying to 
make me believe.” 

Leonard did not seem to know that she was speaking, 
but suffered her to put her arm through his and walked 
on, without heeding the crowd that drew respectfully 
back, or the glances of Christian sympathy that followed 
him. But she called out with hysterical force, “ Yes, it’s 
my'duty, — I forgive you one and all ; but don’t ask me to 
forget, for I can’t do it.” 

Leonard literally did not hear this. His faculties were 
locked up. He walked forth like an iron man. 

The couple got into their one-horse wagon, and drove 
home. Leonard was hard and silent all the way ; while the 
good wife sat folded in her shawl, crying bitterly, but with a 
hushed grief ; for, now that she had no one to struggle 
against, her high spirit broke down, and many thoughts 
came to her mind that left her completely heart-broken. 

“ What if it were all true ?” 

It would force itself upon her ; first as a doubt ; then a 
dread ; then — God help the poor mother ! — almost as a 
certainty. How many little things came crowding to her 
mind, each bringing its bitter proof of what she dreaded to 
believe, resented against herself, and yet could not drive 
out of her heart ! 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 287 

When these feelings had fastened themselves upon her, 
she felt the yearning want of contradiction with which the 
soul strives to fling off a painful belief. 

Had he heard it ? Did his heart prove traitor to his 
wishes, as hers was doing ? She longed to know, but felt 
an unaccountable dread of disturbing the silence into 
which he had fallen. At last she reached forth her hand, 
touching his arm with a strange feeling of awe. 

“Joshua, you don’t believe it ? Oh, do speak and say 
just that.” 

He attempted to answer, but the words of shame grew 
husky in his throat and died there. 

“ Won’t you speak to me, husband ?” 

“ Yes, mother. No, not that ; you ain’t a mother now, 
only a poor, childless woman, who will never lift up her 
head again.” 

“And you turn agin her, too ! Oh, Joshua, who will 
stand by her if we believe that ?” 

He did not answer, but a low, hoarse moan told that an 
effort had been made. 

“ Oh, father ! does your heart ache like that ?” cried the 
wife, piteously. 

“ It will never stop aching,” he said, heavily. 

She had nothing more to say. The conviction of Amy’s 
guilt closed more and more darkly around her. What 
could she say ? 

Meantime Amy had fled homeward with wild speed. 
She did not seek the highway, for there would be wagons 
and groups of old neighbors going home from the donation 
party. They would ask her to ride, might question her of 
the reason why she was on foot and alone. No, she would 
avoid all living things. 

The fields were wet and misty with dew, but she took 


288 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


no heed of that, nor cared for the stone walls and rail 
fences that blocked her passage across them. Once or 
twice she stopped and looked vaguely around, like a deer 
seeking some covert. Then she would spring forward, and 
struggle through the moist grass till her garments were 
wet through and through. There was fever in her blood, 
and the dampness did her good. More than once she 
stooped down to the red clover tufts and white daisies, 
that seemed to have closed themselves against her, and, 
sweeping up handfuls of dew, bathed her lips and her 
burning forehead. But nothing would appease the fire 
within except sharp motion. So away she rushed through 
the sweeping grass, while the bent, but scarcely trampled 
meadow flowers, startled back as if affrighted from her 
tread ; and the pure stars looked down upon her in 
heavenly sorrow, that any thing they and the angels knew 
to be innocent should take that guilty seeming. 

Amy went homeward, not with any definite intent, but 
because she had no other place in which to hide herself. 
Indeed she had no formed wish or plan, but, like a 
wounded bird, fled ornyard to escape the great pain aching 
at her heart. 

At last she came within hearing of the falls, — within 
sight of the mill, and of her father’s cabin. Every thing 
was dark there. The rushing waters made her stop and 
think. What if she turned that way, — not towards the 
saw-mill, the thought of those dark logs made her nerves 
creep ; but higher up in the rush of the whirlpool, where 
the starlight could fall upon her as she died ? 

As this thought held her in thrall, a whip-poor-will, hid 
in some tree back of her father’s house, began to wail 
forth his protest ; and, strange to say, there was something 
in his song that won her back from the evil temptation 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 


289 


that was drawing her fascinated towards the falls. It 
seemed like some friend, who had known trouble, calling 
her away home. 

The cabin was dark and still. No light but the stars, — 
no sound but the whip-poor-will, who seemed plaintively 
bewailing her sorrow. There was little occasion for bolts 
in those days ; a latch-string drawn in was sufficient in- 
dication that no one was at home. Amy felt for the knot 
to this leathern thong, and let herself in. A few gleams 
of starlight stole after her, so that she was not left in utter 
darkness. But, now that the poor -child had reached 
home, what could she do ? In a few moments her parents 
might be there. She must meet them, — must look in her 
father’s face. The thought drove her mad ; she turned 
and prepared to flee again. Ah, if her mother would but 
come alone ! But that kind, stern father, — she could not 
meet him. 

But where could she go ? Who would receive her ? 
Where, in the wide, wide world was there a roof to shelter 
her, save that which now seemed to frown her away ? 
As these dreary questions sunk into her heart, she heard 
a sharp rattle of wheels coming up the road. It was her 
father and mother. 

Amy started, and attempted to rise, but her limbs gave 
way ; the breath seemed to struggle in her throat, and, 
before she had power to move, the wagon stopped, and 
she heard her parents coming. Desperation gave her 
strength, and she stood up ; but the corner into which she 
had shrunk was dark, and the room seemed empty to the 
two persons who darkened the door. 

“ She is not here ! Oh, Joshua, she has not reached 
home ! Where can my child be gone ?” cried the good 
woman, calling out piteously, and beating the air with 
18 


290 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


her hands. “ They have driven her wild ! They have 
hunted her to death ! She is lost, — dead !” 

“ Hush !” commanded the stern-voiced man. “ It would 
be a mercy if what you say is true !” 

11 Oh, Joshua ! Joshua ! she is our child, — our only 
child !” 

“No; not our child. She was the apple of this eye, 
but I pluck her out.” 

A sharp, low wail broke out from the darkness of the 
room ; then, with the fleetness of a bird and the stillness 
of a ghost, Amy passed by her father and away. He saw 
her a moment, flitting through the starlight which fell 
across the road ; then she was suddenly engulfed in the 
black shadows of the saw-mill. 

u Oh, Joshua ! Joshua Leonard ! what have you done ? 
It was our own poor angel child, — for she is an angel ! 
Cover her with sin and iniquity like a garment, heap 
ashes on her head, and she would come out white as snow 
compared to them that make charges against her ! What 
have you done, Joshua Leonard, but turned, like a pelican 
of the wilderness, agin your own flesh and blood ! Why 
don’t you speak ? Why don’t you move ? Can’t you call 
out and bring her back, as the prodigal father called for 
his son ? Amy ! Amy !” 

Poor woman ! her voice was so choked with the passion 
of her grief, that what she meant for a shout scarcely rose 
above a hoarse whisper. 

“ Oh, mercy ! mercy ! God has taken away my voice ! 
Shout ! you hard-hearted man. Scream till the woods 
ring ! My child shall not be turned out-of-doors !” 

Her voice broke forth now. She struggled past her 
husband, pushing him aside with force, and ran wildly up 
the road, calling with frantic grief for her child. 


THE DESOLATE HOME. 


291 


“ Come back, Amy — my own, own Amy ! Come back 
and take poor mother along. Since he turns agin us, and 
believes us guilty, and wishes us dead, we’ll leave him all 
that there is, and go off into the cold, wide world all 
alone. Amy I Oh, Amy ! do speak to your mother ! She 
loves you just as well as ever ! She’ll stand-by you, right 
or wrong ! She’ll die for you — starve for you — work for 
you! She’ll go down on her two knees to that committee 
and beg ’em to let you off ! If they won’t do that, she’ll 
stand up by your side in the broad aisle of the meeting- 
house, afore the hull world, and tell ’em all that it was 
her own fault, — that she did it all by her miserable way 
of bringing you up ! Come back, Amy darling ! come 
back to your mother !” 

But there was no answer to this pathetic cry. It rang 
through the darkness of the saw-mill, and sobbed itself to 
death among the rushing waters ; but, though she paused 
to listen, holding in her grief, no reply reached her, save 
that of the whip-poor-will, that sounded harsh and cruel, 
mocking her anguish, as if the strange voice joined with 
her daughter’s enemies and clamored for punishment. 

Then a horrible fear came to her heart. Had Amy 
plunged into the watery grave from which God had once 
saved her ? Was she then floating, stark and cold, among 
the logs under her feet ? The pangs of her anguish came 
sharp with the thought. She bent over the black abyss, 
shrieking forth the unhappy girl’s name in heart-rending 
cries. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


SEARCHING IN THE DEPTHS. 

Joshua Leonard heard these cries, and they smote 
through his iron frame as lightning strikes an oak. He 
had been dumb till now. The sight of his child flitting by 
him like a ghost, with that pale face turned away from his 
in terror, had killed the anger in his heart. He had not 
heard the reproaches of his wife ; for the moment every 
faculty of his being was locked. But the cries of that 
poor mother brought him to life again. It was terrible to 
hear them cleaving through the darkness. He started 
towards the mill ; but, as he left the threshold stone, the 
mother came across the road and passed him. Her face 
was ghastly in the starlight, and her teeth chattered as 
with cold. She had no reproaches for her husband then ; 
but, seized with, pity, threw her arms around him. 

“Oh, Joshua, she is dead! We, — no, no, — I have 
killed her !” 

In the very depths of her sorrow the poor mother was 
generous : for her life she would not have upbraided him 
then. 

“ Did you see her ? — hear any thing V 1 

“ No, it was all over. Every thing was still.” 

He broke from her arms, entered the house, and, seiz- 
ing the tinder-box, fell upon his knees, aDd began to strike 
out great sparks of fire from a flint and steel. 

29 2 


SEARCHING IN THE DEPTHS. 293 

“ Bring the lantern. She may have hid herself from 
fear of her father. God forgive me ! Bring the lantern !” 

Mrs. Leonard opened a door, and took the lantern from 
its nail in the cellar-way ; but she was obliged to kneel 
down on the hearth and take hold of the candle with both 
hands while her husband lighted it ; and then the flame 
quivered, as if a high wind were passing by, from the irre- 
pressible trembling of her limbs. 

When the candle was locked into its tin prison, the mis- 
erable pair went down to the saw-mill together. Pale and 
shivering, they wandered around the heaped-up boards and 
logs, calling Amy softly by her name, in dread of frighten- 
ing her by loud tones ; but they found nothing to indicate 
her presence, living or dead. 

Leonard held his lantern down through the floor till the 
black waters reddened in its glare. His wife leaned over 
his shoulder, casting appalled glances into the abyss, but 
turning every instant to cover her eyes, overcome with 
dread of finding the terrible thing she sought. Leonard’s 
face brightened a little when he saw that the logs, which 
lay in the water like great monsters asleep, were dry on 
the upper surface. Surely, if she had plunged to her death 
in this spot, there would have been some motion left in the 
timbers she must have touched, — some marks of water 
dashed over the bark. 

Leonard rose from his knees and stood upright, with a 
glow of hope in his eyes. 

“ Our God is merciful ; she is not here,” he said, with 
tears streaming down his rough cheeks. 

His wife gave a sob and flung herself into his arms, try- 
ing like a little child. 

He kissed her tenderly, wiped the tears from her face, 
and pressed it against his bosom. 


294 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Ah,” he said, with humility, “ how much better you 
are, wife, than I am, — how much better in the sight of 
God !” 

“ Dear me ! No, no, Leonard, don’t say that !” 

“You had the grace to forgive at once. It was I, the 
strong one, who drove her away, our poor, weak child !” 

“ Don’t, Leonard, you break my heart. If she could 
but see you now, the very look of your eyes would bring 
her back.” 

Leonard took up his lantern, and, passing one strong 
arm around his wife, who began to look hopefully up to 
his brightening face, went out of the mill. He held the 
lantern low as he reached the firm ground, searching for 
tracks in the grass. He found none, however ; but in the 
dust of the road, rendered moist by a heavy dew, small 
footprints appeared, which he knew to be Amy’s. 

“ She is alive, — she is alive ; we shall catch up with 
her in a little while,” cried the glad mother. “ Won’t we 
be good to her and comfort her, and stand up against the 
whole world for her, Leonard ?” 

“ With God’s help, my wife !” 

“ Oh, of course ; I meant that only it seems so easy to 
forgive one’s child without help, you know.” 

Thus talking together, these not entirely unhappy 
parents, — for true goodness is never quite miserable, — 
traced the footsteps of their erring child along the dust of 
the highway, till they disappeared in the hoof-prints and 
wagon-tracks of a cross-road that led from the festival at 
Norwich. 

“ She has gone back to the minister’s,” said the father, 
pausing in his walk. 

“ Yes,” answered the mother, with a thrill of yearning 
tenderness, “it is up yonder she has gone. Her own 


SEARCHING IN THE DEPTHS. 295 

mother would not comfort her, so she went to our best 
friend.” 

“ Sit down here, and we will wait till she comes back,” 
answered the father, with a deep swell of the heart ; 
“poor child ! how tired and broken-hearted she must be.” 

They sat down together on the trunk of a newly-fallen 
tree, which lay upon the sward on one side of the road ; 
and thus with their arms around each other, heavy-hearted, 
but comforted in the best of all human love, that which 
springs from time, they watched and waited for the com- 
ing of their child. Few words passed between them, but 
sometimes, when the night air chilled his wife, he would 
gather her in his arms and console her against his heart. 

It was long after midnight when these two stricken 
people arose, wearily, and returned home, saying to 
each other. 

“ Never mind ; our child will come back to-morrow : 
then she will know how much we love her.” 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

WANDERING IN THE NIGHT. 

Amy had left the house from fright alone. The soun 
of her father’s voice in stern denunciation fell like iron on 
her heart. She was out-doors, and fleeing along the shad- 
owy side of the road before a thought of where she was 
going entered her mind. She was tired now, — a little rest 
made her feel how tired, — and she longed to lie down on 
the turf in some corner of the fence and die. But she 


296 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


dared not pause or sleep. Some one might pass by and, 
seeing her there, guess that she had been driven forth by 
her father, — her dear, good father, whom she loved so 
fondly, and yet had offended beyond hope of pardon. 

The delicate reticence of her nature shrunk from this 
exposure ; so she wandered on till the very tree on which 
her parents afterward watched so many hours tempted her 
to sit down. Here a feeling of utter dreariness fell upon 
her. Homeless, friendless, disgraced, ill, what could she 
do? where could she go? Back to her parents ? Alas, 
she had no courage for that ! Who on the wide earth 
would give her shelter now ? She thought over all her 
meagre list of friends. Was there one who would not pull 
in the latch-string when she was seen to approach in the 
desolation of her disgrace ? She could not hope that there 
was. 

Then Amy thought of her lover with a sort of dreamy 
pain. He had left her to all this, — betrayed her into some- 
thing worse than death. She wondered if he guessed at 
her present distress, and if the knowledge would give him 
a moment’s uneasiness. Then she fell into a sort of apathy, 
and would believe nothing, not even what Hannah Arnold 
had said, nor the stern words of her own father. Her feet 
were wet ; her limbs were chilled ; but there was strange 
heat in her forehead. Altogether, it was insanity that 
possessed her, else why was she there so cold, and at 
night ? Why did she think such wicked things of him ? 
Why did she so long to creep away and hide herself for- 
ever and ever ? 

I think Amy fell asleep a moment, but a wagon coming 
down a distant hill aroused her : she must not stay there. 

But, alas, her limbs were so heavy, her poor frame so 
terribly chilled, that she could hardly move, and fell back 


WANDERING IN THE NIGHT. 297 

from the stone wall that she attempted to climb, trembling 
with weakness. 

Then what could she find on the other side but long, 
wet grass, and stones harder than the hearts that had con- 
demned her ? A friend, — had she one on earth ? 

It might have been some pitying angel that reminded 
her that moment of Hagar and her last words in the or- 
chard. She forgot that the negro woman belonged to his 
father; or, if she remembered, the idea brought vague 
comfort with it. Yes, she would go to Hagar, whose 
words had been so full of pity. 

The wagon was close by now, or she might have dropped 
off into lethargy again. As it was, she started up and 
walked steadily forward till she came in sight of the Ar- 
nold mansion. A light burned in the front room after the 
fashion of those times. Hannah was sitting up with her 
betrothed husband, and their happy, low voices, as they 
conversed by the open window, floated out on the air, 
mocking the poor wanderer, who stood leaning upon the 
gate looking at them through her blinding tears. It was 
now late, at night : so Hannah arose, with a happy blush 
on her cheek, and bade Paul good-night, placing her hand 
in his with the sweet confidence which follows a full avowal 
of mutual affection. 

Hannah had left the minister’s directly after Amy’s de- 
parture, and thus escaped the whispers and half-spoken 
scandal that followed the poor girl’s flight, else there would 
have been tears instead of roses on that young cheek : for 
she loved Amy Leonard with her whole heart, and grieved 
silently at the change which promised her another sister- 
in-law. 

Amy saw Hannah stand up, drooping toward Paul like 
a flower on its stalk, till her lips met his in the first kiss 


298 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


of their betrothal. How tenderly he laid his hand upon 
her head 1 with what gentle respect he conducted her to 
the door, and whispered good-night !” 

Amy saw it all, and the bitterness of her own fate pressed 
upon her with cruel force. She could bear the scene no 
longer, but opened the gate and stole round the house, 
hushing her breath as she went. 

Hagar slept in a little bedroom off the kitchen, — a room 
which Amy had played in seores of times when she and 
Hannah were children together. The kind soul was wake- 
ful that night, for she knew something of the sorrow Ar- 
nold’s engagement to the French girl would bring to 
Amy Leonard. A sense of wrong oppressed her honest 
heart ; she could not get the pale face of that young crea- 
ture out of her mind ; it haunted her like a ghost, as she 
said afterward. 

While she was lying in this half-wakeful state, she heard 
footsteps coming round the house, and the rustle of gar- 
ments brushing through the plantain leaves with a heavy 
sound. Then two hands, beating with their open palms 
against the window, aroused her completely, and she sat 
up in bed, her wool half-uncurling with fear and her great 
eyes riveted on the window. 

■“ Who’s dar? — who’s dar, I say ?’* she cried out. “If 
it’s a live pusson, speak out; if it’s a ghost de Lord a 
massy on us, for I’m ’lone in dis part ob de dwellin’ 1” 

“ Hagar ! Oh, Hagar, let me in ! You told me to come 
if I wanted a friend. Let me in, Hagar. I am shivering 
with cold, — I am ready to drop.” 

Hagar knew the voice and sprang up. 

“ Hush, Miss ! I knows yer voice, and opens to it to 
once. Jes’ go roun’ to de kitchen door, an’ I’ll be dar in 
no time.” 


WANDERING IN THE NIGHT. 299 


The face went away from the window ; and Hagar, hud- 
dling on a skirt and short-gown, opened the kitchen-door. 

“ Come in, — come in, poor little honey-bird !” she said, 
drawing the shivering girl in with both hands. “ Don’t be 
afeared. Yer welcom’ as greens in spring time ! Dar, dar 
sit down on de hearth, — it’s kinder warm yet, — whilst I 
rake open de ashes and blow up de embers.” 

Amy fell into a great armed-chair that stood near the 
hearth, and, leaning her head back, sighed heavily. Hagar 
was busy attempting to kindle up the fire, which ignited 
slowly ; but a few splinters of pine knots soon shot up in 
a flame, and then Hagar rose from her knees prepared to 
say some comforting words to her guest ; but she was 
startled to see the white face falling forward on her bosom 
with the stillness of death. Amy had fainted. 

Quick as thought the negress ran to a cupboard, and, 
seeing a camphor bottle, poured some of its contents into 
the palm of her hand, with which she bathed Amy’s fore- 
head and temples. 

“ Come to, — come right to, I tell ye ! It’s a friend as 
you’re wid, — one as’ll stan’ by ye so long as she’s got two 
feet to stomp wid. Come to, I sez ! Open yer blue eyes 
an’ see who it is, my chippen-bird ! Lor, dat camphor’s 
strong ; but ’taint no more good dan water ! Hi, hi ! she 
shivers, — she’s cornin’ to, poor honey !” 

Amy breathed again and feebly lifted her head. Hagar 
ran for a pillow. 

“ Dar, dar ; jes’ res’ yer sweet head ’gin dat, an’ take a 
few drops more ob dis ’ere camphor. It’ll take de chill 
right off from yer heart. Dear, dear ; how wet yer feet 
are, and yer go-to-meetin’ frock !” 

Down upon her knees Hagar fell, and, taking off the wet 
shoes, began to rub the white feet they had chilled with 


300 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


great tenderness, buzzing and purring over them like a cat 
comforting her kittens. 

“ Yes, yes ; yer got one friend yet, anyhow ; and, 
while Hagar libs, to say nuffin’ of tudder pusson as is 
revoted to her, nobody shall hurt yer. Dar, dar, don’t 
ver feel ’em gettin’ warm and rosy as a little baby’s feet 
when its mudder kisses ’em ? Now, try to open yer eyes 
wide ; and if yer could jest smile a little, it’d seem ter en- 
courage me while I go up-stairs and call missus.” 

“ No — no, don’t call any one 1” pleaded Amy, strug- 
gling to sit up. I can’t think how I came here ; but your 
kind words ran in my head all the way ; and I forgot that 
it was at his home you lived. I will drink a few drops of 
the camphor, Hagar ; then give me my shoes and stock- 
ings, and I will go away !” 

“ Go away ! No you won’t. Dar !” 

“ Yes, Hagar, I must; this is no place for me. I was 
not quite myself, or you would not have seen me here.” 

“ But whar will yer go to ?” 

“ I don’t know !” 

What will yer do ?” 

“ I don’t know !” 

“ What sent yer away from hum so late o’ night ?” 

Amy turned her head with a moan of pain, but an- 
swered nothing. 

“ Der yer want ter go back ?” 

Two great tears rolled down those pale cheeks, and 
Amy whispered sadly, 

“I cannot go there, Hagar. It is not my home any 
more !” 

“ Den dar’s only one ting ter be said ’bout it, — here yer 
is, and here yer’ll stay till mornin’, sure. I’ll jist hang 
ober de tea-kittle and make a hot cup o’ tea, which you 


WANDERING IN THE NIGHT. 301 

shall drink in comfort, while I rub yer feet till dey burn 
agin. Arter dat, per’aps yer’ll tell me someting else 
dat‘11 do yer good. Hark ! I hear somebody a-comin’ 
down-stairs. Wasn’t dat a creak ?” 

Amy started up, and, regardless of her naked feet, pre- 
pared to escape ; but Hagar forced her kindly into the 
chair again, striving to pacify her fright. 

“ Dar — dar now, honey bird ! don’t be skeered, — yer 
haven’t nothin’ but friends under dis roof, anyhow. No- 
body kin come as isn’t glad ter see yer. So jest sit still 
and stop shakin’ 1 It’ll do no good, — and what don’t do 
no good, is wastin’ de Lord’s precious time.” 

The poor, weak girl suffered herself to be controlled, 
though her eyes, now wide open and burning with affright, 
were turned upon one of the doors like those of a chained 
gazelle. 

The door opened a little, and a sweet voice called out, 
“ Hagar.” 

“ Well, missus,” answered the handmaiden, “what am 
wantin’ ?” 

“ Nothing, Hagar. Only I heard a noise in the kitchen, 
and, as everybody was in bed, fancied that something 
might have happened.” 

“ Somethin’ has happened ! Look here, — look at dis 
poor lamb. Stand by her, missus, or her death’ll be on 
our heads as sure de Lord knows what’s what. Come 
here, missus ; kneel down by de side ob Hagar, and pray 
Almighty God to forgib dem as has brought her to dis. 
It’ll be prayin’ for yer own son I” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE REVELATION. 

Mrs. Arnold came into the room at this appeal ; her 
white bed-dress sweeping the floor, and her sweet, old 
face shaded by the borders of her night-cap. The face 
was anxious ; the eyes full of tender compassion. She 
stooped over Amy, and looked into her averted face, as 
the angels look when they pity us most. 

“ Amy, my poor child, has this news troubled you so 
much ?” she said, stealing one arm across the young girl’s 
shoulders, and resting the head on her own motherly 
bosom. 

Amy’s eyes were closed ; but a gush of hot tears rained 
over her cheeks. 

“ I am .sorry, — you can’t think how sorry. Indeed, 
Amy, we all had hoped otherwise ; we loved you, and 
will always love you dearly. Xo stranger ever can seem 
so much like a daughter to me.” 

Amy could only answer with convulsive sobs ; but she 
lifted her arms and clung to Mrs. Arnold. 

“ Ah, this is terrible ! I feared something, but not this 
entire heart-break,” said the gentle lady. “ What can w r e 
do, Hagar ? Is there no way of comforting her ?” 

Hagar stood looking at her mistress as if she wondered 
at the question. Then she took Amy from the arms that 
enfolded her, and laying her head on the pillow, beckoned 
Mrs. Arnold to follow^ her into the bedroom. 

302 


THE REVELATION. 


303 


Amy was worn out with weeping, but her frightened 
eyes followed them wildly. She made a struggle to get 
up, but fell back again, and lay helpless, listening to the 
sound of Hagar’s voice in the next room, for terror had 
hushed the storm of her grief. 

When Mrs. Arnold came forth again, her mild face had 
changed so that you would hardly have known it. She 
seemed like a criminal who had just listened to a sentence 
of death. 

Hagar stayed in the bedroom muttering to herself, and 
denouncing the author of all this woe, in order to relieve 
her own feelings, while she smothered her words that 
they might not wound her mistress. 

Mrs. Arnold went up to Amy, who saw by her face that 
another was made wretched as herself. Sorrow, commis- 
eration, and horror struggled over those delicate features. 
She knelt down softly before the young girl and took her 
two hands. 

“What can I do for you, Amy V ’ she said, in a heart- 
broken way. “I am but a weak woman, and he is my 
only son ; but, God helping me, this marriage' shall never 
take place !” 

Amy gasped for breath. The first hope came suddenly 
like an arrow, and was sharp as pain. 

“ Bend down your head, my poor child. Tell me every 
thing, for, from this hour, I am your mother. 

Amy bent her head, but she had little to say. Arnold 
had judged well when he bound that delicate conscience 
with an oath. To have saved her own life, she would not 
have rendered him more criminal in the eyes of that gentle 
mother. So the unhappy lady rose up with a conviction 
that it was the old story — alas ! so often told since ; but 
in those days one from which the moral nature recoiled 


304 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


with a sort of terror. This vague feeling Mrs. Arnold 
could not altogether conquer. She did not caress Amy 
again. Something in the depths of her pure soul pre- 
vented that, but she was even humble in her kindness. . 

“I am his mother,” she said, mournfully ; “ and should 
have some influence with him. Little as my authority has 
ever availed, I will go as he has invited me, not to witness 
this marriage, but to prevent it.” 

“Can you? Oh, can you?” cried Amy, with renewed 
life. 

“ God will help me, for I am doing right ; so we will 
hope. Now, go with me up-stairs ; we shall find a bed 
in the next chamber to mine. No one shall disturb you. 
Sleep quietly ; for, after this, if you wish it, this house 
shall be your home so long as it is mine.” 

Amy bent down her lips and timidly kissed the little 
hands that held her own. So the two went up-stairs 
together, Hagar delicately keeping out of the way. But 
all night long the sound of her discontent broke out in 
muttered denunciations of men in general, and of all 
French people, male or female, who traveled about, as 
she muttered even in her sleep, like roarin’ lions, seekin’ 
whom dey might devour wid der claws. 

Mrs. Arnold did not leave Amy’s chamber till the poor 
girl sank into that dead, heavy sleep which follows great 
exhaustion. Then, as the night candle revealed the grief 
which had eaten all the bloom from that young face, her 
womanly soul began to yearn tenderly towards the helpless 
creature, spite of her faults, spite of the degradation which 
seemed inevitable, and in which her own household must 
share. Really good women are always charitable, always 
ready to seek for the good which lies under weakness 
and error, especially among sister women. She has no 


THE REVELATION. 


805 


pleasure in dragging forth evil, and only stoops to it that 
she may ameliorate and reform it. Deprived of this 
heavenly privilege, she casts the vail of her own pure 
thoughts over the deformity of error, as God himself 
hides the nakedness of winter under robes of white snow 
and jewels of ice. 

So it was with Mrs. Arnold. A less heavenly woman 
might have' sought some excuse for her own child at the 
expense of this poor girl ; but her heart was filled with 
but one wish, that of saving both from future sorrow. 
When Amy was quite unconscious, the mother kissed her 
forgivingly on her lips, that trembled even in sleep, and, 
with her heart full of compassion, went back to her own 
room. 

She did not close her eyes till morning ; but instead of 
dwelling bitterly on the evil that had befallen her house, 
lay devising means of extrication, hoping for the best ; 
and, under all, was a sweet, yearning tenderness, vague, 
but inexpressibly delicate, which brought back memories 
of that year when her first-born son brought with him the 
heaven of her own maternal life. So when she thought 
of that son, in his arrogance and selfishness, it was as our 
Saviour regarded the downfall- of Peter, with forgiveness 
and that increased love which the good are apt to bestow 
upon the weak. Weak ! yes, that was the word ! Mrs. 
Arnold could not bestow the term wicked on the son whom 
she wmuld now only think of as a noble infant smiling on 
her bosom. It was only Hagar who dealt with the young 
man according to his own plain, unvarnished iniquity ; 
and even she would permit no other person to breathe a 
word to his discredit. 

When Mr. Arnold awoke in the morning, he found his 

wife readv dressed and sitting on one side of the bed. It 

19 


306 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


seemed to him that something like the flutter of rose- 
leaves across his lips had disturbed his slumbers, and he 
opened his eyes with a smile. He could smile then, — 
that long-suffering man, — for all the signs of his long 
degradation had passed away from his face, an£ from his 
life. He was, soul and body, a new creature, an earnest, 
honest man who, once resolved to act rightly, had grown 
strong and good. 

Unlike some reformed inebriates, who are constantly 
parading past sins, as if there were something in them 
to gloat over and boast of, Arnold sought to ignore 
that portion of his life in which his manhood was so 
cruelly swamped, as if it had not been. He had sinned, 
repented, and been forgiven, both of God and man. 
There was something sublime in this, which a reckless 
parade of his past faults would have destroyed utterly. 
It is a coarse, morbid vanity, more than a wish to benefit 
others, that leads men to hold up even past follies to the 
world. 

But the elder Arnold was not a man of this stamp. 
The story of his reformation was told plainly in the clear 
brightness of his eyes, — in those firm, compact features, 
and in a softness of tread which had self-respect and power 
in it. In all her life Mrs. Arnold had never been so proud 
of her husband. While he looked upon her in the morn- 
ing with those dear loving eyes, she could not be alto- , 
gether unhappy. But now, that she was about to bring 
new sorrow upon him, her eyes fell, and she was at a loss 
for words. 

“ What is it, wife ? Something has gone wrong, I see 
by your face ; troubled yet about your share of the dona- 
tion ? Is that it, foolish little woman ?” 

Poor lady ! she had forgotten all about the donation- 


307 


THE REVELATION. 

IP 

party, which had been a trial ; and now it seemed so far 
back, that she wondered how he could remember such 
a trifle. She shook her head, and a quiver came to her 
lips. 

Arnold took the alarm. There was one point about 
which his fears always hovered. 

“ Benedict ! Is it any thing about him ?” 

She could not answer him at once, but bent down and 
kissed his forehead, striving to tranquillize him beforehand 
with her gentle woman’s tact. 

“ Don’t, wife,” said the husband, with sharp apprehen- 
sion in his voice ; “ where he is concerned, anxiety t ills 
me. You look pale; your eyes are heavy. Speak rut. 
If any thing is wrong I can bear it !” 

“It is about him ; but do not look so distressed. J t is 
a great wrong ; but there is time — there must be time —to 
set it right.” 

“ Speak out !” 

“ I cannot in a word even to you. It is hard to bla ;ken 
one’s own son.” 

“ I know it. God help me, do I not understand tl at ?” 

“ And a parent, especially a mother, should screeu her 
child from the consequences, even if he has done wrong !” 

“You think so ? Well, I am glad of it. Your words 
take a load from my conscience ; but you pain me. What 
is it ?” 

With a trembling voice and flushed cheek she told him 
all. When she had done, he was sitting up in bed stern 
as a rock. “As there is a God to aid me in a just act, 
this shall be set right,” he said, and the husband and wife 
parted. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


THE UNION OF SORROW. 

At early dawn Joshua Leonard and his wife were astir. 
Neither of them had slept during the night, still no words 
had passed between them, save when the low voice of the 
wife rose in the darkness asking her husband if he slept. 
A deep sigh was sometimes the sole answer, but once or 
twice he said, “ Yes, wife ; I am awake,” and that was all. 

- When the daylight came, and the two could see each 
other face to face, Mrs. Leonard began to cry ; the pale 
and locked features upon the pillow near her seemed so 
strange that she was almost afraid. 

Joshua said, “ Hush, hush !” very mournfully, and, get- 
ting up, built a fire and went out to the well with the tea- 
kettle in his hand ; but, for the first time in his life, he 
walked like an old man, and the well-pail slipped from his 
hold twice as he attempted to lower the bucket down to 
the water. 

When he came in, his wife sat on the hearth shivering. 
She watched him as he swung the kettle to its trammel, 
and left it enveloped in clouds of smoke, through which 
little streaks of flame shot and curled like vipers. 

“ IPs no use,” she said, drearily ; “ I can’t get breakfast 
this morning ; and as for eating, the first mouthful would 
choke me.” 

Joshua was standing, with his eyes on the struggling 

fire. His hands were locked, and falling loosely before 
308 


THE UNION OF SORROW. 809 

him. The plaintive misery in his wife’s voice penetrated 
to his heart. 

“I was thinking of you,” he said, tenderly. “It seems 
as if I should never eat again.” 

The housemother grew strong when she saw his weak- 
ness, and rising, she said, with some energy, 

“ Come, Joshua : we must neither eat nor rest till Amy 
is found.” 

He took his hat from its nail, and she put on her bon- 
net ; so the two went heavily forth in search of the lost one. 

It was a misty, raw morning : clouds of fog lay heavily 
on the meadows, the grass was sodden with moisture, and 
the trees shed storms of cold rain from the branches when 
the wind swept them. Once more they searched in the 
saw-mill and around the falls for some signs of her pres- 
ence. Every thing was still and dreary, but they found 
no trace of her progress in that direction. This gave them 
hope ; for the earth was moist, and tracks must have been 
left had she passed that way. The fear that some trace 
which the darkness had concealed would present itself had 
haunted the man with dread all night ; now his courage 
rose, for he felt sure that Amy was alive. 

“ Come,” he said, taking his wife by the hand ; “we will 
not stop till she is found.” 

So, leaving the cabin behind them, they walked down 
the road, looking to the right and left, as they had done 
the night before, half-expecting to find Amy in the shel- 
ter of some stone wall, or crouching in some crook of the 
fence. 

After a while they saw a man coming along the high- 
way, toiling heavily onward, as if he, too, carried a burden 
of age or care which sunk his feet in the moist clay of the 
road. 


810 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Leonard stopped suddenly and stood still, with his feet 
planted sternly in the road and his face growing hard a iron. 

It was the elder Arnold. 

“ Maybe he’s found our Amy,” said Mrs. Leonard, softly. 
n Don’t look that way, Joshua ; he isn’t to blame.” 

Her words awoke a memory in Joshua’s heart. He re- 
collected the day when the old man coming along the road 
had warned and advised him against the visits of his son 
No, his wife said truly, the poor, unhappy father was not 
to blame ; but it was terrible to meet him nevertheless. 

Slowly and steadily the two fathers approached one an- 
other. Both were pale, the eyes of both were full of stern 
sorrow. Arnold made a motion as if to hold out his 
hand, but drew it back, shrinking within himself. There 
was a struggle in Leonard’s bosom, but at last he tore 
away from the evil feelings that bound him, and reached 
forth his hand. 

The features of Arnold began to quiver ; two great tears 
rolled down his cheeks as he met the proffered grasp. 

“ She’s safe. Your child is safe.” 

Leonard wrung the hand in his grasp, and, looking at 
his wife, tried to smile. 

“ Where, — where is she ?” cried Mr. Leonard. 

“ At my house, — with my wife. She came in the night, 
worn out and wet through ; poor, poor child !” 

“ At your house!” said Leonard, sternly, withdrawing 
his hand. 

“ Yes, brother ; and that is the right place for my son’s 
wife ; for, as the Lord liveth, no other woman shall bear 
his name or darken my door !” 

Here Mrs. Leonard began to cry, and sobbed out a crowd 
of disjointed ejaculations, that were pathetic only from the 
deep feeling they betrayed. 


THE UNION OF SORROW. 


811 


“ Brother,” said Leonard, “ God has smitten ns buth in 
the heart of our pride. I know how to feel for you now. 
I am humbled, God help me 1” 

“ Let’s go, Joshua, — let’s go. I want to see my child. 
Is she coming home ? Does she pine to see us ? Has she 
cried her heart out ? What did she say ? How does she 
look ? Why don’t you tell me something about my daugh- 
ter, Brother Arnold ?” 

Mrs. Leonard’s impatience was not to be restrained. 
She waited for no answer to her inquiries, but hurried on ; 
and the two men followed her, conversing gravely and 
sadly on the way. 

Amy, exhausted and worn out, slept heavily that morn- 
* ing. As the chill went out from her system, a sense of 
protection and comfort stole over her. The great burden 
of her secret had dropped away. The very worst had 
come upon her, and after that every human soul knows 
something of repose. So Amy fell into a long, deep slum- 
ber, dreamless and still as death. Mrs. Arnold’s gentle 
words had given her infinite consolation. She was, at al. 1 
times, a dependent and clinging creature, more ready to 
endure and suffer than to act ; and the mere physical com- 
fort of a warm, soft bed under his father’s roof had been 
enough to hush her sufferings into repose, for the time at 
least. 

Thus, when Mrs. Leonard stole on tip-toe into that large 
chamber, and moved softly towards the bed, Amy did not 
awake ; but this new presence disturbed her, and, turning 
on the pillow, she began to cry in her sleep, till the gush 
of her own sobs grew so violent that she awoke. 

“ Amy !” 

“ Mother, is it you ? What ails me ? ' I have been 
dreaming such miserable dreams. It’s time to get up and 


6 12 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


help about breakfast, I suppose ? Has father gone to the 
saw-mill ?” 

*“ Amy, my own child !” 

“ Why, you’ve been crying, too. How strange you look 
with a bonnet on, and — and — oh, mother ! 1 remember it 
all now.” 

The poor girl cowered down in the bed with her 
frightened eyes turned on her mother, and seemed to hold 
her breath. 

Mrs. Leonard bent over her and rained soft kisses on 
her face. 

“ Chirk up, my dear, chirk up. Nobody shall hurt you, 
or put you down while I live, and while your father lives, 
for he’s a host in Israel. Don’t cry, darling — don’t cry, or 
you’ll set me a-going, and I can’t bear any more on it. 
There, there !” 

“ You have left father to come and find me. Go back* 
mother ; he has no one but you now.” 

“ No, dear !” 

“ He wished me dead, — I heard it ; but it is the hardest 
thing on earth to die when one wishes it. You can’t get 
rid of the life that is in you without doing such horrid 
things ; then the darkness beyond is so fearful. Tell him 
I tried to die, but hadn’t the courage to do what would 
stop my heart-beatings. Tell him I’d give the world to 
see him, but now I’m weak and couldn’t bear it. If he 
will only wait a little and not curse me, perhaps God will 
be merciful and take me out of his sight ; I won’t even 
pray to live, only for comfort to him and you, dear 
mother. Tell him this, and oh, ask him to forgive me 
after I’m dead. I won’t plead for it now : but he might 
then.” 

‘‘ Be still, Amy, or you’ll, break my heart. It was a 


THE UNION OF SOREOW. 


313 


wicked word, and over in a minute. We searched for yon 
nearly all night, — your father and I, — up and down, till it 
seemed as if we should drop in our tracks. ” 

“What! he, — my father !— my father!” murmured 
Amy, melting into a flood of tears, her very soul given up 
to tender regrets. “ Oh, mother ! has he forgiven me ? 
Will he — will you have a little faith, a little forbearance 
with me ? I have done wrong, very, very wrong ; have 
deceived you, been disobedient. But oh, if I could tell 
you all, — if you would believe me without telling. Just 
forgive, and trust, and wait.” 

“We have forgiven on trust, or without trust, no 
matter, Amy, what has happened. So long as God for- 
gives his children we must stand by ours. It’s nature, 
and it’s religion. God doesn’t lay little darling babies into 
our arms to have them turned out-of-doors for the first sin. 
Them’s my sentiments, and they’re your father’s, too ; we 
agreed on that last night in the saw-mill, — he and I.” 

“ And you were searching for me there ? Oh, if I had 
but known it !” sobbed Amy. 

“ Perhaps it was all for the best, dear. If you hadn’t 
come to this house, maybe the old man and your father 
mightn’t have made up. As it is, I must say Mr. Arnold 
has behaved beautifully. He says that no other woman 
shall ever have his son’s name, or darken his door.” 

“ Did Mr. Arnold say that, mother ?” cried the young 
girl, seizing her mother’s arm with both hands. 

“ Yes ; and Miss Arnold says it too. And as for 
Hagar, she near about upset us with kindness. She’s got 
some toast and tea afore the fire waiting for you to wake up. ” 
“ I thought last night, that Hagar was the only friend 
I had in the wide, wide world. Oh, mother, y)u are 
very good to forgive me.” 


314 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ There, there. Kiss me once more, then try to get up 
and dress. I didn’t tell you, but father’s down-stairs.” 

Instead of being elated, Amy shrunk down into her bed 
again. There was something in the idea of meeting her 
lather that made her tremble. 

* “ Don’t take on so. He won’t give you a cross look, to 

say nothing of hard words,” said the mother, marking the 
change with the quick sympathy of her sex. 

“ I know that ; but his kindness, I can’t bear it while 
he believes Oh, mother ! what can I do ?” 

With broken conversation like this, the mother and child 
spent a few more minutes together, before they went down 
to the room in which Joshua Leonard sat waiting for 
them. 

Few words passed between the father and daughter. 
Strange to say, the nervous timidity which had marked 
Amy’s demeanor during the last few weeks, had, to a 
certain extent, disappeared. She was very weary, it is 
true, and the saddened whiteness of her face was touching 
to behold, but her look was clear and truthful. There 
was nothing of shame in the depths of those eyes ; on 
the contrary, every thing about her seemed pure as a lily ; 
no shadow of guilt or shame could be found on her white 
forehead. She was grieved, heart-broken, but what seemed 
a consciousness of innocence gave gentle dignity to her 
movements. 

With so much proof against her, and before a word of 
denial had passed her lips, the father took comfort from 
her appearance. She came up to him and knelt softly at 
his feet. 

“ Father,” she said, folding her hands meekly before her. 

Leonard laid one hand on her head. With all his 
strength, he could not help blessing her whom he had 


THE UNION OF SORROW. 


815 


intended only to forgive. His own honest heart bore wit- 
ness in her favor, the idea of guilt connected with his 
child lost its force the moment she appeared. It was a 
moral conviction altogether independent of knowledge or 
reason. He felt that something pure and true lay at the 
bottom of this trouble. 

“ Father, may I go home with you and mother ?” 

“ God forgive me the bitterness which drove you away, 
my child. I, who was so harsh against your fault, have 
prayed God, and still pray that he will forgive my own. 
Yes, come with us, Amy .’ 7 

“ Father, let me look in your eyes.” 

“ Well, child !” 

“ You look into mine and almost smile. People accuse 
me — they believe in my fault — it is great, but not as they 
think, father ; I would not go home, I could not live if 
all they suspect were true. You believe me, father. 
Something tells you this, or the old look would not come 
back to your face ?” 

He kissed her upon the forehead. 

Then she stood up with more strength than had been 
witnessed in her demeanor for weeks and weeks. 

Leonard was half-relieved. The innocent face of his 
child had its benign effect, but there was a delicate reti- 
cence in her nature which checked the questions that rose 
to his lips ; for, with all his rude strength, this man 
shrunk from the interrogatories that might, he believed, 
have won her entire confidence. 

While his wife had been in Amy’s chamber, Arnold 
and Leonard had conversed together, about the best 
means of bringing something of good out of the shame 
that had fallen so suddenly upon them. At first Leonard 
sternly expressed his determination to seek the young 


816 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


man, and force an honorable atonement for the shame . he 
had wrought ; but Arnold knew his son better, and im- 
plored the wronged father to remain at home and leave the 
matter to him. Leonard yielded at last, but only with a 
reservation, if the father, with his lawful authority, failed, 
then the wronged man would take the matter in his own 
hands. Thus it was settled, and the Arnolds entered 
upon their preparations for what was, in those days, an 
important journey. 

When Amy heard this, the flush and tremor of excite- 
ment came back. She stood a moment disturbed with 
stormy thought, and then with quick resolve spoke : 

“Father, I must go with Mr. Arnold.” 

“ You, my poor child 1” 

“ It is right, — it is my duty. I must see him, though it 
kills me, I must go.” 

“ She is right,” said Mrs. Arnold, who had opened a 
door unnoticed, and stood on the threshold as Amy spoke. 
“ She is no longer a helpless child, brother Leonard ! See 
how strong the thought has made her. The day after to- 
morrow a sloop leaves the river ; i^ that we take passage. 
Amy goes too. You will trust us, Leonard, and with 
God’s help all shall be well.” 

Leonard looked irresolute. Amy saw it. 

“ Father, I pray you let me go.” 

Leonard’s face cleared up. “ Yes,” he said, “ but not 
without us — your mother and I — the sloop is large enough 
for us all.” 

Mrs. Arnold came close to Leonard as he spoke. “Bro- 
ther,” she said, gently laying a hand on his shoulder, 
“ trust Amy with me, your old friend ; I know Benedict 
well : no power can coerce him. He would defy heaven 
itself. But there are many generous qualities in his heart : 


FAMILY JOURNEY. 


317 


lea^e them with his mother. The boy loves me, and I 
solemnly believe loves her. If sterner power is needed, 
Arnold will use it, have no fear ; but as we will in all 
things do our utmost to protect your child, I beseech you 
put no unnecessary humiliation on ours.” 

“ You are right, sister,” said Leonard, touched to the 
heart by her motherly appeal. “ God forgive me if any 
lurking vengeance made me wish to confront the young 
man ! It is a hard thing to keep down a rebellious 
spirit.” 

“ For my sake, for hers,” pleaded the gentle matron. 
“You cannot strike him without breaking a poor mother's 
heart. ” 

“I will stay at home : do with our child according to 
your will : the mother and I can only wait and pray.” 

Thus it was settled, and with calmer hearts than they 
had ever expected to know again, the Leonards returned 
home and reinstated Amy on the hearth-stone, from which 
she had been driven in the first storm of their sorrow. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A FAMILY JOURNEY. 

In these days of long jorneys, when a trip to Europe 
J decided on one hour, and undertaken the next, a voy- 
age to New Haven from Norwich is scarcely more than a 
morning's drive ; but in the time of our story it was alto- 
gether a different affair. When a sloop sailed down the 
river, people gathered on the wharf to see it off ; passen- 


318 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


gers took leave of their friends with tears in their eyes ; 
and handkerchiefs of gorgeously printed cotton fluttered 
in the air, till the important craft was out of sight. 
Science has changed time and space, but human love 
and sympathy are the same forever and ever ; and the 
people who gathered on the little wharf in those days, 
were actuated by exactly the same feelings which throng 
our vast piers when a mammoth steamer goes out crowded 
with hundreds. 

The preparation in Mr. Arnold’s house was creating no 
little commotion. True, there was no great wardrobe to 
prepare. A huge chest, clamped with brass, which stood 
in the upper hall, was unlocked, and two or three dresses 
taken forth ; a dainty silver-gray silk, gored in the skirt 
and ruffled at the elbows, was refolded and placed in a 
small hair-trunk ; cap-ribbons were smoothed out ; and 
Hagar ran about the kitchen all one morning clapping bits 
of lace and muslin between her hands, which were white 
and crusted with flakes of starch to the finger nails. 

Hannah Arnold, very grave and thoughtful, worked 
upon the kerchiefs and caps which were to shade the still 
pretty neck and bro\tf of her mother. Her lover had 
returned home on the morning after Amy came to the 
house, in ignorance of the change which that event might 
make in his sister’s destiny. The reticence of social life 
was severe in those 'days ; and Hannah herself only 
knew that her friend Amy had taken the engagement of 
her brother with Laura more painfully than she had ex- 
pected, and that trouble was impending between the two 
families, — that her parents threatened to interfere against 
the marriage, and thus darken her own lot. 

If the young girl felt this to be a little hard, who cart 
wonder ? She had wronged no one. Paul had come to 


A FAMILY JOURNEY. 


319 


her with a free heart. Why was her brother’s faithless- 
ness, if such it was, to break up all her own sweet hopes ? 
She felt too surely that any interference of her parents 
sufficiently potent to break up the marriage would place 
her brother in perpetual feud with the family of his be- 
trothed. Then what would be her own fate ? All this 
made Hannah very gloomy and dispirited. She knew 
that Amy was in the house, but some sensitive feeling 
kept her from asking any explanation of the fact till the 
Leonards carried their daughter away again. Then she 
learned that Amy was to go with the family to New 
Haven, and this filled her heart with new anxieties. 

Mrs. Arnold was also very much occupied. Her whole 
heart was so taken* up with the great evil that had befal- 
len them, that she had not given the position of her 
daughter the consideration it deserved. A great wrong 
had been done, and her pure, honest nature was exercised 
in all its capacities to redeem that wrong. She thought 
no further than this, and it was well for her object that 
she did not. The idea that her daughter also must be 
sacrificed might have overwhelmed her strength. 

Thus it happened that the mother and daughter were, 
to a certain extent, put asunder during those few days. 
The thoughts occupying Mrs. Arnold’s mind were not 
such as she could discuss freely with a young girl, brought 
up after the fashion of those times, and her confidence 
was rather bestowed on Hagar, who, in right of her own 
benefactions, looked on the whole affair as peculiarly be- 
longing to her department. 

On the evening before the sloop sailed, Mrs. Arnold 
and Hagar, after taking out the silver-gray dress, and two 
or three garments of rich chintz, which were at once 
neatly packed for the journey, loitered over the open 


320 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


chest, as if there was something more to . be said, which 
neither of them knew exactly how to begin. 

Twice Mrs. Arnold put her hand into the chest and 
drew it forth again, with a flush on her cheek, at which 
Hagar, who sat on one corner of the chest before which 
her mistress knelt, turned her eyes decorously away. In 
the end, this svreet dame drew forth a little bundle from 
a corner of the chest, and, with the blush deepening on 
her cheek, began to untie it. 

“ Hagar !” she said. 

“ Well, missus, what am it ?” 

“ Here are a few things that I want you to whiten and 
do up while we are gone, if it won’t be putting too much 
work on you.” 

“ Too much work, — what am you tinking ’bout ? ’Cept 
de men folks, I shan’t have nothin’ to ’tend to. Jest 
tell me what you want, and I’ll do it sure !” 

Mrs. Arnold’s lip began to quiver, and a mist came into 
her eyes as she opened the little bundle, and took out first 
one tiny garment and then another. 

“it don’t seem possible that he ever wore these,” she 
said, looking at Hagar through her tears, as she thrust 
two slender fingers into a tiny sleeve, edged with a cob- 
web of lace. “ He was a noble baby, Hagar ; don’t you 
remember ?” 

“ Yes, I can’t ’spute dat, but it seems ter me discredi- 
ble dat he ever wore dem ere frocks and tings, and 
Miss Hannah arter him. Gracious me, how babies does 
alter in course of time, doesn’t they?” 

“ He was my first child, you know, Hagar,” said the gen- 
tle matron, flushing with the remembrance of that heaven 
of her young life, when a little rosy hand was laid for the 


A FAMILY JOURNEY. 321 

first time on her bosom ; “ and now to think that he is a 
grown man ! I can’t realize it.” 

She sighed heavily, and the tears, which had stood in 
her eyes, began to rain down, dropping upon the little yel- 
low garments in her lap. 

“Nor I neither. De Lord ob hebben forgib him !” an- 
swered Hagar, wiping her eyes with one M corner of her 
linsey-woolsey apron. 

“And now,” said Mrs. Arnold, between the faint sobs 
that began to gather in her bosom, “he is a man, while I 
am getting feeble and old. What if he refuses to listen ? 
What if he should deal harshly with me and with her ?” 

“ Don’t tink ob no sich ting, missus. De bressed Lord 
sends yer, and it’s yer duty ter go right straight forred 
wedder or no. Don’t be skeered ’bout not’in’. Human 
natur’ ain’t bad’ nuff to stand up agin yer, ’specially yer 
own son. De minnit he looks in yer eyes he’ll wilt rite 
down and gib up, nebber fear.” 

“ But if he should not, — if Mr. Arnold were to fail, and 
cast him off, — then, Hagar, this poor girl must be taken 
care of. We shall adopt her in his place, and deal tenderly 
with her, as if she were our own child.” 

“ Ob course yer would,” answered Hagar, gathering up a 
handful of her rough apron and holding it to her eyes with 
a hard pressure ; “ but ’twont ebber ’mount to dat. He’ll 
come too.” 

“ I hope so,” said the mother, mournfully ; “ but it’s a 
painful duty to undertake, and I’m not used to such 
things.” 

Hagar gazed on the poor lady despondingly a moment ; 
then her face brightened all over, and, lifting her chin in 
the air, she broke out, all at once, 

“ S’posin’ I go wid yer, missus. He knows me ob old 
20 7 " 


322 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Let him only jes’ say his soul’s his own, an’ I’ll maul 4© 
right ting out ob him !” 

Mrs. Arnold laughed faintly amid her tears, at which 
Hagar flung her apron down and smoothed it over her 
knees in a huff, until the lady, seeing this, began in her 
tender way to expostulate. 

“ Don’t, Hagar, — don’t be hurt about it. What would 
the house come to without a head ? Besides, I want some 
one that we love and trust to be here and welcome us 
when we come back. Who knows that it will not be a 
wedding-party, all among ourselves, of course ?” 

Hagar brightened propitiously, and, taking up her apron 
again, began to plait the edge between her fingers, holding 
her head on one side, as you sometimes see a hen eyeing 
its food. 

“ Missus, in de co’rse ob natur’ one weddin’ breeds an- 
udder ; an’ if all tings turns out ’cordin’ to our wishes, 
p’r’aps you’ll hear ob two cullerd pussons ob yer ’quaint- 
ance as may want to toe de same mark in yer kitchen.” 

Mrs. Arnold looked up and smiled pleasantly. 

“ Well, Hagar, no one will object. I only hope it may 
come to that.” 

“ Then we has yer consent ; and if yer sees dat tall nig- 
ger as cum wid de gemman las’ winter, jes’ gib’m a hint oh 
what’s goin’ on in de undercrust ob dis ’stablishment. 
F’r’aps he’ll wish he’d sent some word or cum back, as- he 
promised to, when he knows dat dis member ob de fair 
sect he used ter tink so much on is lost ter him for good 
an’ all.” 

Mrs. Arnold promised to remember. At another time 
she might have been amused at Hagar’s transparent co- 
quetry; but now her heart was too heavy even for a smile. 

“ How,” said Hagar, rising from her seat on the chest, 


A FAMILY JOURNEY. 


323 


“jes’ gib me dem tings and I’ll hab ’em white as de drifted 
snow ’fore yer cum back.” 

“ Not yet,” answered the matron, gathering the bundle 
together. “No one ever did them up but myself, before 
this. I should like to wash them out once more, if you 
have no objection, Hagar.” 

Hagar was getting her chin into the air again ; but the 
last few words modified her rising discontent, and she ob- 
served, in an indifferent way, 

“ Oh, well, missus, if you take a notion to wash ’em out 
wid yer own hands, I’ll heat de water an’ set out de soap- 
dish. It’s not my way to ’trade work on nobody, ’specially 
in de fust wash ; but when it comes to starchin’ an’ ironin’, 
and sicli like, I reckon Hagar’ll be wanted.” 

Mrs. Arnold gathered up her treasure of little garments 
with a sigh, and stole down the back stairs into the kitchen, 
where Hagar, as good as her word, got the smallest tub in 
order, and, putting handful after handful of soap in the wa- 
ter, stirred up a snowy foam of suds in no time with a few 
dashes of her hand. 

Then, with tears in her eyes, the gentle housemother 
bent over her delicate work, as she had done years and 
years before in the first glow of her married life. 

This was the last household work that Mrs. Arnold 
performed before her journey ; and many a sadly tender 
thought filled her heart as those small hands accomplished 
their task. Yet if any one entered the room she grew 
frightened, and, burying the article she held in her hand 
deep in the suds, would continue her task under water, re 
garding the person who approached her with shy and 
anxious glances. 

When her task of love was done, the mistress had a long 
talk with Hagar about the housework, and those multifari- 


324 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


ous cares that were to devolve on the faithful kitchen slave. 
After that she. was ready for rest ; but when did rest come 
to a poor mother’s heart burdened like hers with a cer- 
tainty of unworthiness in the first-born of her life ! 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 

Now that Amy Leonard was at home once more, with 
her conscience free of its cruel secret, and the forgiveness 
of her parents assured, a certain degree of tranquillity 
came back to her heart. Rest, profound rest, seemed the 
sweetest boon that could be given her. For a little time 
she had cast off the thorny crown of her sorrow ; and the 
very fact of having a home with its little comforts, one 
from which there was no fear of being driven, was in itself 
a great blessing. 

There was hope, too, in Amy’s heart. If her father, 
with his stern pride and blameless nature, could forget and 
forgive, — if the loquacious mother could grow delicate and 
tender in the refining strength of her compassion, — surely 
he could not persist in the great sin which, for a moment, 
he might have meditated ! Human nature could not be 
so bad as that. Led away by ambition and the love of 
wealth, his strong ruling passion, he might have gone far- 
ther than was honorable in his admiration of the young 
French girl ; but to marry another and she alive, that 
could never be. 

Besides this vague faith in human nature and in the 


THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 325 

honor of her husband, Amy knew that the elder Arnold 
and her own father had united in a determination to pro- 
tect her. Oh, if she could have told them all, — if she 
could have said to those sorrowing men, who still went 
forth to the open air with heavy shoulders and heads 
bowed down from a belief in the shame of their children, 
— the truth, and the whole truth, how boldly and bravely 
they might have gone about their just work ! 

But, above all things human, Amy loved Benedict Ar- 
nold : never in her life had she disobeyed his most impe- 
rious wishes. The very tyranny of his character made 
her look up to him with worshiping awe. His bold self- 
reliance was so far above the possibility of her own attain- 
ment that it seemed grand and noble to her. But the 
charge of secresy, the vow which he had forced upon her, 
galled her delicate nature and dragged it down like guilt 
itself. 

All this Amy did not feel so acutely now as she had a 
day or two before ; for the most harrassing pain will grow 
stolid after a wild storm of passion, and it takes a little 
time to gather venom and strength to gnaw and rend the 
soul into fresh torment. 

The one strong wish of Amy’s heart was to see Arnold, 
to plead with him on her knees to give back her oath and 
her honor, that she might stand in her calm innocence a 
wife before the world. She was gentle, but not altogether 
weak. If he refused this, — if he still peristed in branding 
her forehead with shame, — then she would be just to her- 
self. If her womanly protest went for nothing, she would 
claim freedom from that cruel vow, and, asking it back of 
Heaven, prove to her father and his father that her great- 
est sin had been disobedience and secresy. 

True, Amy had no record or certificate to prove this : 


326 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


both had been given to Arnold ; but the clergyman was to 
be found. But why think of all these rebellious things ? 
When Arnold knew of her sorrow, — when he heard of that 
terrible scene at the minister’s donation party, — he would 
cast aside every thing and protect her from his own proud 
sense of honor. 

Thus Amy reasoned with herself, filling her life with 
fresh delusions, but finding comfort in them even in the 
saddest plight that ever a young creature was driven to. 

Leonard had not yet told his wife or daughter of the 
arrangement by which Amy was to be given up for a time 
to the Arnolds ; so the poor child wearied herself with ~ 
plans, and grew sick with a wild desire to find her way to 
Benedict’s presence and there claim her place at his side. 
He should not use her weak, wicked oath to the cruel end 
of separating them. She was young, helpless, and for- 
bidden to ask advice ; but he could not look in her eyes 
and persist in doing the wrong they talked of. 

In the midst of these reflections Leonard told her of his 
promise to Benedict’s father, and with sad kindness bade 
her prepare to set forth on the morrow. 

Amy received the news as a feverish patient listens to 
the rush of cool waters. She clasped her hands and fairly 
wrung them in her extreme joy ; her lips grew red ; her 
eyes danced with light : she seemed really alive for the 
first time in months. 

And now her small preparations were entered upon with 
something of former cheerfulness. A sweet joy broke up 
from the bottom of her heart, all springing from one thought. 
She would see him again in a few days : he might tell her 
with his own lips that some cruel mistake had arisen, out 
of which the agony through which she had passed had 
sprung. 


THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 827 


The little party did not start so early as they had in- 
tended. A high wind blew strongly up the river and kept 
the sloop at her wharf twenty-four hours beyond her ap- 
pointed time. 

These twenty-four hours were bitter ones to Amy Leon- 
ard. For, on the morning when she should have sailed, 
three men, deacons and trustees of the church, came with 
the slow, solemn dignity of a grave occasion, and, fasten- 
ing their horses by the door-yard fence, walked down to 
the saw-mill where Leonard was at work. 

The unhappy man must have had some idea of the ob- 
ject, for his face flushed and grew pale as they approached, 
while he stood still, trembling like a culprit. He had not 
slept a calm hour since the minister’s donation party, and 
his nerves, which till then had seemed made of steel, were 
shaken. 

He stood upright, as I have said, waiting for the poten- 
tates of the society to approach. The Christians of those 
days possessed many ideas of religion which the advance- 
ment of mind has softened and refined ; now, a stern sense 
of duty, such as they understood it, filled every heart. The 
idea of consideration or gentle pity for an offender was re- 
garded with distrust, as a snare and a weakness. If any 
such feeling ever clamored at their naturally kind hearts, 
they were ready to fall upon the earth and pray God to 
relieve them from a grave temptation. Indeed, indeed it 
was a stern type of religion which sent our forefathers into 
the great western wilderness. 

When the functionaries of the society came before Leon- 
ard, he, knowing their business by intuition, stood still to 
receive them, without saying a word or attempting to 
reach forth his hand. His eyes filled with troubled light, 


828 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


and he looked upon his visitors with deprecating humility, 
that had, nevertheless, something strong and noble in it. 

“ Brother Leonard,” said the foremost of the deputation, 
an old man, whose locks, white as snow, fell down his back 
wound and tied by a rusty black ribbon, “ Brother Leon- 
ard, we have come, unwilling, and in the name of the 
Lord.” 

“ I know, — I know it all. My child — the poor, helpless 
white rabbit up yonder — you’ll not leave her in the form 
to nurse her wounds and hide herself? Oh, Brother 
Downs, couldn’t you wait a little before you bring her to 
open shame ? Just give us breathing time till God will 
hear our prayers. We can only wail and bemoan ourselves 
now. The gift of words has forsook us, even before the 
Lord. We can only bow down with our faces to the 
earth. Leave us alone, brethren, — leave us alone ! In a 
little while we can bear this better. ” 

“ Nay, brother,” said the old man, lifting his eyes slowly 
from the earth, where they had been riveted while Leonard 
spoke; “ the laws of our society are strict, and change not. 
When a member of the fold backslides, prompt correction 
must be applied. We have waited long and patiently, 
hoping to be spared this grave duty ; but the house of 
our Master must be rescued from contamination. The 
girl has sinned grievously, and must atone with penitence 
and abasement that our skirts may be cleansed.” 

" She is penitent ; no human soul ever grieved as she 
does, — my poor, lost child !” cried Leonard, with a quiver 
of his massive chin. 

The old man answered, 

“ Truly it rejoices us to hear this ; but penitence, to be 
of sweet savor before the Lord, must be- open, and the 
humiliation of sin complete This is set down clearly in 


THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 329 


the platform of our faith. No form of regeneration to 
the culprit must be wanting, — no degree of atonement 
omitted which our fathers have deemed essential to sal- 
vation. ” 

“ And what would you with the child ?” faltered the 
unhappy father. 

The unflinching reply was, 

“ It is the law that one offending like her shall confess 
her sins openly before the assembled society, and, stand- 
ing with her head uncoyered in the broad aisle of the 
meeting-house, ask pardon of God and the brethren for 
the reproach which has been brought upon both.” 

“ And you ask my Amy to stand thus ? Are you so 
nard with the poor lambkins of the flock ? Must a sacri- 
fice of shame be offered, before my child can kneel in the 
house of God again ?” cried Leonard, with bitter anguish 
in his look and voice. 

“Brother Downs,” he added, “you have a grandchild, 
think of her, and have a little patience. Our wounds are 
fresh now ; they ache and bleed at the first touch. Give 
us a little time, only a little time. ” 

The old man shook his head. “ Nay, Brother Leonard, 
the work of the Lord cannot be put off. That which the 
platform layeth down must be accomplished. The girl 
you speak of is dear as the apple of my eye ; but if she 
had offended like your daughter, I would not, for one mo 
ment, ask a suspension of the just laws which purify our 
society from sin.” 

The old man said truly. In the moral force of his 
religion he was a Brutus, and like him would have acted. 
But Leonard was, in truth, what the old man thought 
himself to be, — a devout Christian, — and, with such, 
mercy and tenderness stand side by side with justice 


330 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


He could not protest against the laws to which both he 
and his daughter had subscribed when they were enrolled 
into the brotherhood of the church ; but their significance 
had never seemed so terrible before. The thought of his 
child suffering all this humiliation lowered his strong soul 
0 to the dust. 

And yet still some vague hope, springing out of Amy’s 
still more vague words, prompted him to plead for a little 
time. To ask more than this he knew well would be in 
vain. Turning to the younger members of the committee, 
he urged this point upon them with an eloquence that at 
last prevailed. Some understrata of human kindness lay 
beneath their iron sense of duty ; and, with many a word 
of hopeful consolation, they promised, — should they find 
the girl penitent, as her father reported, — to put off the 
day of her inevitable humiliation to the most distant period 
possible. 

Here the conference in the saw-mill ended, and, in a 
body, the deputation moved towards the house, Leonard 
going first, to prepare his wife and child for the cruel inter- 
view which was to follow. 

Like mourners gathering for a funeral, these stern men 
seated themselves around the kitchen, each gazing fixedly 
on the floor at his feet ; for, with all their stoicism, it was 
a painful duty they had come upon ; and, even to the 
white-headed old man, the occasion was a mournful one. 

The door which led to the inner room was closed, and 
a faint stir of garments could be heard within, but no 
word or whisper penetrated it from the group within. 
If they had expected to hear sobs and moans, nothing of 
the kind met them, but the stillness was far more dis- 
tressing. 

After a little the door opened, and Amy came forth, a 


THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 331 

little in advance of her parents. The frightened look, 
which so many had remarked before her secret was made 
public, had given place to a sweet, deprecating expression, 
which no mortal man could have met without throbs of 
compassion. She was pale, but it was the still, firm pale- 
ness of concentrated feeling, not the livid white that 1 ^ 
springs from fear. 

_ “ You wish to speak with me ?” 

Her tones were low, and gentle as a human voice could 
utter ; full of humility, but blended with something of 
self-respect. 

The men who had come to judge her, saw that fair 
young creature standing before them in her meek dignity, 
and had nothing to say. Was this the aspect of guilt? 
Was that mild face, with no ideas save the acute shadows 
about the eyes, one that guilty passions had swept ? 

“ Sit down,” said the old man, clasping his hands on 
one knee, and clearing his voice, which, spite of himself, 
was a little husky. 

Amy moved towards one of the splint-bottomed chairs 
that furnished the kitchen, and sat down. Then her 
mother came through the inner door, and placed herselt 
close to Amy. She had been weeping bitterly, and her 
face was flushed ; but the silence and imposing gravity ol 
the committee held her in thrall. At last she spoke, but 
in a subdued voice. 

“ If she’s done wrong, it’s me that led her to it, — me, 
and me alone, bro — gentlemen. When an old bird leaves 
her nest, over and over agin, afore the young ones know 
ho v to fly rightly, it isn’t the poor little critter that should 
be punished, but the parent-bird that didn’t do its duty 
and keep watch. If you’ve got any thing cruel to say, 
or hard, that you want done, I sit here now ready to 


332 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


bear it all, and do it all. If you want somebody to stand 
up in the broad aisle and confess that she’s wicked as 
Satan, and wickeder too, I’ll do it next Sunday ; and 
Joshua’ll stand up and testify that it’s all true, and my 
fault from beginning to end. Don’t shake your heads and 
"look strange, bro — gentlemen. I’ll do it ! You may set 
that hull committee of sisters on a row in the deacon’s 
seat to look at me, and I won’t flinch. See if I do.” 

Tears, great bright tears, started into Joshua Leonard’s 
eyes, as stars break through a stormy cloud. He had 
never known how much real greatness lay in the heart of 
his rosy, common-place wife : so, out of all this pain 
sprang the blessing of a true companionship. He could 
never think of her but with reverence from that day for- 
ever ; for, beneath the foam and driftwood of her nature 
he knew that pure water always slept, ready to sparkle 
forth when self-sacrifice was wanted. 

Leonard drew near his wife, and laid one hand tenderly 
on her shoulder. She looked at the committee with a 
glance of triumph. 

“ You see Joshua stands to what I say. He’ll bear me 
out when I tell you that all the wrong that has been done 
in this house belongs to me.” 

“ Mother,” said a sweet, low voice, “ let me speak. The 
committee think that I have done wrong.” 

“ Think !” exclaimed the old man severely, planting his 
cane on the floor, and folding both hands over it. “ Brother 
Leonard, is this the penitence you promised ?” 

Leonard was about to speak, but Amy anticipated him. 

“ My father promises nothing that I will not perfo m 
I am sorry, oh ! you will never believe how sorry, for all 
that has brought trouble on my parents, and reproach 
upon myself ! But you are Christians, and kind men ; 


THE SUMMONS TO CONFESSION. 333 


you cannot wish to condemn me more than I deserve. I 
am so youug, — so much in your power ! Those who 
lored me once have turned against me now, and I have 
no friends to stand up for me, — none but my father and 
mother, who, being good and blameless, might expec* 
some mercy for their child. ” 

The pathos of her voice and manner had its effect, where 
the words alone might, perhaps, have failed. 

Even the old man’s fingers began to quiver on the top 
of his cane, and the rest of the committee looked upon 
her with gleams of compassion, forgetting how guilty she 
was supposed to be. 

“ Do you ask a trial before the society ? Is that what 
you want ?” said the old man, in a softer voice than he 
had yet used. 

“ A trial !” she said, quickly. “ A trial ! with the right 
to bring evidence and speak for myself ! Yes, yes, I will 
ask that. Give me four weeks, — one little month. It is 
all I want. Then if you still condemn me, I will beg 
pardon of the brethren on my knees anywhere you shall 
point out; but have mercy on me just a little . while, for 
my father’s sake.” 

“ Brother Leonard,” said the old man, standing up, with 
the cane planted before him, on which he leaned with both 
hands, “the four weeks which this unfortunate girl asks 
shall be given. What do you say, brothers ? Shall we 
refuse time meet for repentance ? For the sake of one 
good man God put off his vengeance on an iniquitous city ; 
for our brother’s sake we will wait also.” 

Joshua Leonard turned his face away. He could not 
endure that his friends should see how deeply their kind- 
ness touched him. The mother caught a glimpse of his 
emotion, and began to cry ; but Amy looked intfc the old 


334 THE REJECTED WIFE 

man’s face with a faint smile, which made him lift one 
hand from the cane ; for ho forgot her crime in that inno- 
cent look, and was about to say good-by, in the usual 
way. But a thought of his position checked the impulse, 
and he frowned heavily on her, that she might not guess 
his weakness ; and so the committee went away, happier, 
it may be, from the gentle sympathies that had conquered 
their iron convictions of duty. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE TYRANT AND HIS VICTIM. 

Before Paul de Montreuil started for Norwich, and 
while the intended marriage of his sister was kept a secret 
in New Haven, the unhappy young man whose interview 
with Arnold in the pine woods we have already described, 
sat alone ; and, oh, how wretched in the little room which 
had been a happy retreat to him before the painful events 
that put him in that bad man’s power ! Perhaps upon the 
face of the earth there could not have been found a man 
on whom the burden of a secret could have fallen with 
more painful force ; but, a sin, — a fraud, — an absolute 
wrong, — the very idea that he had been a party to sins 
like these crushed him to the earth. 

The young man was thinner, paler, and far more feeble 
than he appeared that dim night under the pine-trees. A 
look of wild apprehension burned in his eyes, and on 
either cheek glowed the vivid scarlet of a restless spirit, 
if not of absolute disease. Many a hard struggle had 


THE TYBANT AND HIS VICTIM. 335 

this man endured in working his way through the college 
whose shadow lay almost around him up to the pulpit 
which he now filled ; and, after all the privation and toil 
of his young life, what had it come to ? The work of a 
single night, of which he w^as almost unconscious, had 
shipwrecked him on the very strand from which he was 
setting sail on his voyage of usefulness. 

Intellectually, this man was strong. In order to gratify 
the craving of a hungry brain he had struggled through a 
world of difficulty ; but in all other things he was de- 
pressed by that nervous weakness which clothes threat- 
ened evil with double power. In his conscience he was 
so sensitive that the least dereliction from duty was fol- 
lowed at once by bitter self-reproach, which might eat 
his very life out while he brooded silently over it. 

He sat alone, as I have said, in a stiff, high-backed 
chair, whose wooden seat a kind landlady had covered 
with a patchwork cushion of red and blue cloth, cut in a 
small-diamond pattern. Shelves were on the walls, on 
which a few straggling old books leaned against each 
other, as if all the strength had been read out of them. 
A little spider-legged table stood before him, on which lay 
some sheets of paper and a pile of manuscript, — the first 
half of his farewell-sermon. 

A deathly gloom filled the young man’s eyes as they 
fell upon this little heap of written paper ; great drops 
hung on his forehead ; and more than once he clasped his 
hands and wrung them together in passionate sorrow. 
“ Why should I do this,” he thought, looking despairingly 
around the room “ Must a single wrong drive me from 
my home, — from the people who love me. I — I am sure 
they do love me,” he broke out, in a passion of grief ; and 


336 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


falling forward, with his face on the table, he wept aloud. 
He arose after awhile and seized his hat. 

“ No, no,” he said. “ I will not submit to this without a 
struggle. The man has a heart. He is young, and youth 
should be generous. I will appeal to him again. Why 
should he wish to ruin me ? What good will it do him to 
bury me, body and soul, in a mission to those tropic 
islands. I have no heart for it, — no strength for it. If I 
go, long before the voyage is over they will leave me in 
mid-ocean, with an eternal booming of waters for my 
death-knell. I feel the waves curdling over me now. 
Oh, God forgive me, — God forgive me that I have brought 
myself to this, — I who so long held myself free from guile, 
and above reproach, — I who love one of the most pure 
and good of thy creatures; but, because of my sin, 
must carry this as another sorrow down into the deep 
waters.” 

He sat down again ; for in this outburst of passionate 
grief, all the strength left him, and he fell into his chair, 
trembling like a frightened child. 

A door below opened, and the tread of a foot upon 
the stairs checked his breath. He listened, watching, 
as if he expected that some one would break in upon 
him. 

The minister was not far from right. A quick step came 
close to the door. A knock, a sharp motion of the latch , 
and Arnold came in, the very picture of robust health. 

The minister shuddered and shrunk back in his chair. 
The lamp shone on his forehead, and Arnold saw great 
drops glistening on its surface. For one instant a 
thrill of pity crept through his h%art ; but it was thrust 
away at once by rising contempt for a weakness he was 
not good enough to understand. 


THE TYRANT AND HIS VICTIM. 837 

“ What, all alone and gloomy as ever ! Come, come, 
man, what is the use of fretting yourself into a skeleton ? 
The doctors can get one at a cheaper rate.” 

Arnold’s voice was rude and his manner almost insult- 
ing. He seemed to enjoy the anguish of his victim. 

“ I am not quite alone,” answered the minister, lifting 
a pale hand to his forehead and sweeping the moisture 
away. “ The merciful God, who knows how I suffer and 
repent, hears us, Benedict Arnold, even in this poor room.” 

“ Be it so. While he permits the hawk to swoop on his 
prey in the face of Heaven, and the shark to fill his maw 
with helpless little fish, our interview will not be likely to 
draw his lightning from heaven ; and, if it did, I can stand 
more than that.” 

“ Blasphemer !” broke from the white lips of the min- 
ister. 

“ Do you think so ? I did not mean to be irreverent, — 
only truthful. Has it never struck you, however, how all 
through life the strong prey upon the weak ? Man and 
beast, both are alike in this.” 

“You talk of nature in its savage state. Christianity 
is given to subdue and refine nature. A good man, fol- 
lowing the. example of Christ, protects the weaker bro- 
ther, works for him, bears with him, — sometimes is ready 
to die for him.” 

The minister spoke with trembling energy. He sat 
upright in his stiff chair, and the lamplight fell upon his 
face, purifying it. 

Arnold drew a seat to the table, and sat down upon it, 
saying, carelessly, 

“Well, well, you shall be the Christian, and 1 will play 
the shark. While there are plenty of little fish in this 

great sea of life, I am content with that role.” 

21 


333 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


The minister shuddered, and covered his eyes with one 
hand, sighing heavily. When his hand dropped, Arnold 
had drawn 'the manuscript sermon across the table, and 
was reading it. With a sensitive thrill, as if the man 
were searching his heart, the minister reached forth his 
hand with a sharp effort to rescue his thoughts so sacred, 
as an emanation of his own life, from the desecration of 
those mocking eyes. 

“N o ; let me read it,” said Arnold, grasping the loose 
leaves tightly with one hand while he gently repulsed the 
minister’s effort with the other. “If it is the farewell- 
sermon, of course I should hear it with the rest, — so 
what’s the difference ?” 

What was the difference ? I wonder if common men 
ever dream of the shrinking reluctance with which a 
being tvho writes sees his warm thoughts, just as they 
come fresh from the brain, given over to criticism, perhaps 
unfriendly criticism, before his face. It is like playing 
with the strings of one’s heart while they are vibrat- 
ing. 

Those who feel this will know how to pity that sensi- 
tive man ; when he saw the pages over which he had wept 
and prayed, under the eye and in the grasp of his enemy. 

“For mercy’s sake give them back. You are torturing 
me,” he pleaded. 

This pathetic cry of a soul that felt itself robbed had no 
effect upon the hard man. 

“ Directly, directly,” he said, keeping one hand heavily 
on the papers. “ There is genius in this, absolute, down- 
right genius ! Why, man, go dow T n on your knees, and 
thank me for giving you occasion for a sermon like this. 
You never would have produced any thing like it in a 
whole lifetime without my help. ” 


THE TYRANT AND HIS VICTIM. 339 


“Without jour help !” repeated the minister, drearily. 
“ Without your help !” 

“ Why, yes, if, as you say, I have made you suffer. 
Bruise a flower, if you want its perfect fragrance.” 

The minister groaned aloud, muttering drearily, “ But 
it kills the flower 1 It kills the flower !” 

“Sometimes,” answered Arnold, fastening his eyes 
again on the sermon. “ Sometimes.” 

He read on, while the very soul of his victim writhed 
and quivered under this coarseness. 

“ That will be a powerful sermon. I did not know that 
you had so much in you,” said Arnold, at length, giving 
the manuscript a push toward its author. “But when 
will you preach it ? Next Sunday, I hope, for to own the 
truth I am very anxious to have you get off.” 

“ What is the reason of this haste,” inquired the min- 
ister, with some energy, “ so long as I remain silent ? 
Why wish me away ?” 

“It is safer and pleasanter,” answered Arnold, dryly. 

The poor man, thus ruthlessly driven from his home 
and the people he loved, sat for a moment mute and pale. 
Then clasping his thin hands in pathetic anguish, he flung 
them clenched together upon the table. 

“ What have I done to you, Arnold, that you should 
persecute me so ? Have some mercy on me. I love my 
people : I have worked some good among them, unworthy 
as I am to serve my God in any thing. I have tried so 
hard to atone for that one wrong, — a wrong I scarcely 
remember, and would not believe but for the proof you 
hold. I do not even know why that wretched note was 
given. All that I do know of a certainty is, that a day 
of oblivion left me in your power, — left me with a shame- 
ful debt, as I vras told, acknowledged under my own hand. 


340 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


If this oblivion came, as you persist it did, from the wine- 
cup, — if this debt was made at a gambling-table, — then, 
for one unholy day and night, I, God’s sworn servant, was 
a drunkard and a gambler.” 

“ ‘If !’” said Arnold, “‘if!’ I was not the only wit- 
ness.” 

“ Where is the other man ? Bring him face to face 
w r ith me before I am bound hand and foot and given up to 
death !” 

There was something in the wretched man’s face that 
startled Arnold. The anguish in his voice thrilled even 
his stony heart. There was more strength and resistance 
here than he had supposed possible But while this 
thought was striking him with terror, the minister changed, 
the energy in his face died out, tears leaped to his eyes, 
filling them with liquid anguish. His hands, that had 
been lifted from the table, fell down, clasped imploringly, 
and his voice was one wail of pain. 

“ But if it is so, Arnold, you are a man, and I once 
thought you my friend. Have mercy upon me, and let 
this poor soul work out its own redemption before the 
Lord. He knows how I have repented, how I have wept, 
how I have implored forgiveness on my knees for this 
great fault. Why should you, a man like myself, be less 
merciful than God ? He has forgiven me. I know it, — 
I feel it in the depths of my soul. Why, then, are you 
so cruel ?” 

Arnold was disturbed. This pathetic address would 
have softened hate itself. The minister saw it, and went 
on with more touching energy. 

“ I will tell you another thing, Arnold, — a secret that 
has never passed my lips, but which has been the very 
life of my life for many a day. As you loved the sweet 


* 

THE TYRANT AND HIS VICTIM. 341 

girl who came with you that night, I love a creature good 
and pure as she is.” 

“ 1 Is V ” cried Arnold, savagely. “ ‘ Is V Why the girl is 
dead ! You must know that !” 

The falsehood was a sudden impulse. Could he make 
the minister believe it, half the peril that encompassed 
him was conquered. 

“Dead!” cried the unhappy man. “Dead, and so 
young ! Then, in the grief of this bereavement, you will 
find some compassion for one who gave her to you at the 
expense of his conscience. If you loved her, think of 
another quite as worthy. Week after week I have watched 
her soft eyes lifted to mine ; these hands have given the 
holy bread and wine to her lips ; she smiles upon me as 
I pass her window in the calm twilight. We love each 
other, Arnold. I feel that truth in every pulse of my 
heart. For her sake let me remain in peace. Your young 
wife being dead, makes secrecy innocent. I will never 
mention the marriage, if you wish it kept secret. She is 
now beyond the reach of all harm. I was only afraid of 
committing a new sin when I opposed your wishes, — 
afraid of wronging that poor trusting girl. Yow that she 
is with God, you will let me rest, for her sake.” 

Arnold turned impatiently from this appeal. Spite of 
himself it wrung his hard heart, but he was too far com- 
mitted for retreat. A few weeks of delay, and this man 
pleading so forcibly for a respite from ruin might change 
places with him. Because his own heart was relenting 
he goaded it into more cutting cruelty. 

“You doubt my word!” he said; “doubt your own 
handwriting ! ask for an interview w T it.h the person 
whom from delicacy I have kept from your presence ! 
But you shall see him, — talk with him, — receive the blast * 


312 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 

ing assurance from his own lips. But remember, he did not 
know the worst. I kept him in ignorance that you were 
one of God’s holy ministers. When that is revealed to him 
he will not outrage his conscience, as I have done, by 
keeping your great transgression a secret. Besides, he 
is a ruthless man, and without pity, especially for weak- 
nesses among the clergy. There is great danger that he 
may discover your identity with the holy professor by 
accident. At any time he may enter your church and 
find the man he believes to be so degraded dispensing 
God’s sacred word from the pulpit. Up to this time I 
have managed to keep him away ; but last week he sent 
me a letter, saying that I might expect him in a few days.” 

The minister bent his head to the table and moaned 
aloud. Arnold went round to his chair, and laid a hand, 
with seeming kindness, on his shoulder. 

“If I have seemed unkind, it was for your own good,” 
he said. “ I hated to say all this in plain terms ; but can- 
not you see that it is best you should leave this place, for 
a time at least ? It need not be forever. Let the con- 
gregation vote you leave of absence. In a few months 
this unhappy affair can be settled. The day you sail I 
will give up the note. Just keep out of the way while 
the person we dread comes and goes, then we shall have 
nothing to fear.” 

The minister lifted a hand to his forehead, and arose 
from his chair. 

“ Yes ; I will go,” he said. “ If -that poor girl is in her 
grave, it is neither leaving her to suffer, or taking sin 
upon my own soul. I have thought you harsh, Arnold, 
and suspected you of things that I begin to think never 
entered your mind. Let us forgive each other before we 
part.” 


HAGAR S LOVE-LETTER. 


348 


Arnold wrung his hand out of that honest grasp. It 
was like touching fire. He went down-stairs muttering 
to himself, — 

“ There is no help for it. The fellow will come back 
again, if he lives so long ; but I shall be out of the country- 
long before that. Besides, how is he to find out whether 
a girl, whose home is so distant, is living or dead ? Thank 
heaven his cousin has moved away.” 

The minister sat down pale and exhausted. His doom 
seemed less dreary than it had an hour before. The idea 
that he was aiding in a concealment which might bring 
shame or sorrow on the fair girl whom he had united to 
the man whose steps rang in his ear, had lifted a burden 
from his conscience. He would trust himself to the sea 
now that no fresh wrong went with him. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 
hagar’s love-letter. 

The Arnolds had sailed, taking Amy with them. 
Hagar was left entire mistress of the farm-house, an honor 
which she undoubtedly made the most of. There is no 
describing the comfortable meals that she took tete-a-tete 
with her sable lover before the kitchen-fire. Whether it 
was that the absence and consent of her mistress had 
made Hagar unusually confiding, or that Dan became 
more courageous with the house all to themselves, it is 
difficult to say : but certain it was, that in less than three 
days after the family left home, Hagar and Dan were an 


344 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


engaged couple, and fell into those pleasant confidence* 
that make the month before marriage a pleasant forerunner 
of the veritable honeymoon. 

Still, there was some little mystery about Hagar’i, 
movements that Dan could not help observing. A sly 
way of putting things out of sight when he came in 
suddenly, and of turning her back towards him when at 
work, which was rather depressing to a newly-engaged 
man, who thirsted for mutual confidence, thorough appre- 
ciation, and all that sort of thing. 

This state of affairs lasted only one day in the kitchen ; 
but the effect remained behind, for Dan was of a suscepti- 
ble temperament and tormented with these exquisite 
sensibilities that vulgar persons denominate jealousy. 
Just now, of course, all these feelings were ready to start 
into full-grown life with the first provocation. The very 
daj r after Dan had been blessed with a promise of Hagar’s 
fair hand, as he denominated the hard-working member 
which washed Mrs. Arnold’s dishes three times a day, he 
went to Norwich, and was hailed, while passing the post- 
office, with news that a letter had just arrived, directed to 
Miss Hagar Dun, to the care of Mr. B. Arnold. 

Dan took the letter with studied indifference, but his 
heart had given one leap at first, and then fell in his 
bosom like a lump of granite. Who but the black 
gemman, Peter, could write to Hagar, — his Hagar ? 
Perhaps the dandy negro had proposed in that very 
letter. What if Hagar should repent and look back with 
longing after a person who could offer her freedom, with 
all the glory of a city life added to that blessing. 

Dan ruminated in this fashion all the way home. Every 
ten steps he took out the letter, bent it into a tube, and 
examined the writing, not one word of which could the 


ha gar’s loy'e-lettee. 345 ' 

poor fellow have read, even with the help of a broken 
seal. Of course this process inflamed his imagination till 
every crudely formed letter, as he afterward poetically 
expressed it, was like a copperhead sent by that unprinci- 
pled negro to sting him in his happiness. 

What should he do ? Give the letter to Hagar, and 
thus immolate himself on the altar of a noble integrity ? 
“Well,” as Dan said, putting on his crownless hat with a 
dash, “ he wasn’t quite up to that, nohow. Hagar was 
his’n, and his’n she should be in spite of a tarnal heap 
of crooked marks done up in that way just to tanterlize 
him.” 

So, with this indecorous, and, I grieve to say, immoral 
conclusion, Dan crushed the letter in his hand, and the 
hand deep in his trousers pocket, where he held on, as if 
determined to strangle every word it contained before the 
paper saw daylight again. 

When Dan appeared before his betrothed, he was still 
crushing her letter deep down into his pocket, and there 
he stood, gazing upon her with a sort of mournful fe- 
rocity which set his eyes in a glare, and made his face 
blacker than ever. 

Hagar observed this, and came towards him, rubbing a 
teacup hard with her crash towel, in a way that Dan took 
for defiance. 

“ Oh, Hagar ! Hagar !” he cried, with a burst of indig- 
nant tenderness that made his thick lips quiver and his 
white teeth gleam. 

“Why, Dan, what am it as ’stresses yer? Hearn any- 
thing ’bout our folks ? Oh, my, der sloop is sunk ? Dey 
have all gone plump to de bottom, ebery one on ’em. Gor 
Amighty hab mercy on us all, for we’re poor niggers wid- 


346 THE REJECTED WIFE. 


out no master, no missus, nor nobody else ter tell us what 
ter do ! ” 

This outbreak in the wrong direction astonished Dan so 
completely that he stood more rigid than ever, with his 
usually sleepy eyes wide open, and his lips falling heavily 
apart. m 

“ Where was it? When was it? Oh, Dan! Dan! 
Lub me now almost ter death, for I hain’t got nooody 
else ter ’spress ’fection for me.” 

Hagar dashed the towel down from her eyes, and, mak- 
ing a plunge at her lover, threw both arms around his 
neck, so full of genuine grief that she really was quite 
unconscious of her own tender demonstration. 

The granite of Dan’s heart melted within him ; but as 
he attempted to withdraw his hand to return her embrace, 
that fatal letter rattled in his pocket and he was rock 
again. 

“ Miss Dun, will yer jest please ter rise from dis bus- 
som ? Yer fergets der blushing ’priety as is so facer- 
natin’ in de fair sect.” 

“ Dan,” cried Hagar, aghast, and blushing till she grew 
black as midnight in the face, “scuse me, I wasn’t con- 
centious of what I was a-doing ; dem deaths come so 
sudden I ” 

“ Dare ain’t no deaths as I knows on, Miss Dun, on’y 
dare may be,” said Dan, settling himself in his clothes, 
which had been slightly deranged by Hagar’s embrace. 

“ No death ! Den the sloop ain’t sunk ?” 

“ Not as I knows on.” 

“ No, no ; den what has happened ?” 

“ Nothin’ !” 

“ Nothin’ ! And yer did this jest ter cheat me out ob 
a tender embrace. Oh, Dan !” 


hagar’s love letter. 


347 


Hagar’s eyes began to sparkle, and, taking the dish- 
towel which had just been doing duty at her eyes between 
both hands, she commenced to wring and twist it omin- 
ously. 

“ No, I didn’t needer,” said Dan, eyeing the towel ask- 
ance. “ It was you as offered ; not I as asked.” 

“ Dan !” 

Hagar gave the towel an extra twist, and gathered 
both ends in her hand. 

“ Don’t,” said Dan, lifting his disengaged hand. “ Hagar 
Dun, don’t yer ’tempt ter obliterate de majesty ob de man 
yer goin’ to marry.” 

This was magnificently said, and Hagar’s hand fell, 
dropping one end of the crash, which began slowly to 
untwist and resolve itself into a towel again. 

“ Dan,” she said, rendered almost breathless by his im- 
posing look, “ Dan, what does all dis ’mount to ?” 

“ Nothin’,” said Dan, towering with the grandeur of 
his conquest. 

“ Nothin’ ! Den what made yer look so ?” 

“I didn’t look, nohow.” 

“ Dan, yer did.” 

“ Yer mistook.” 

“No, I ain’t. It’s on yer face yet.” 

“ Den its ’cause I’se ’stonished at dese unproper ’ceedings 
’bout nothin’.” 

Hagar drew back quite crestfallen, and went to the 
kitchen table, where her dish-towel was put to its legiti- 
mate use again. 

Dan saw her dejected air, and relented. 

.“ Hagar,” he said, drawing towards her. 

“ What am it, Dan ?” was her meek reply. 

“ Dew yer lub me, Hagar ?” 


848 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Yer knows I duz.” 

“ And nobody ’sides me ?” 

“ Oh, Dan, how could I ?” 

“ True ’nuff,” said Dan, drawing himself up; ‘but 
does yer ?” 

“ Oh, Dan, if yer could but .ead dis bussum you’d see 
nothin’ but yer own image and ’scription dar.” 

“ But Peter ?” 

“ Peter ! I don’t care dat for him,” cried Hagar, lifting 
her wet hand from the dish-pan, and snapping her fingers 
till a little shower of drops flashed over her lover. 

“ You doesn’t, Hagar ? Say dat ’ere again, jest once.” 

“ Not dat !” cried the excited damsel, making her 
fingers crack again. “ He’s mean as pusley, dat ar nigger, 
Pete, and meaner too. Mind I say it.” 

“ And if he was here now, don’t say yer wouldn’t 
speak to him,” said Dan, artfully. 

“Yes, I does say it.” 

“ Fair and square ?” 

“ Fair and square. Try me if I don’t toe de mark, dat’s • 
all.” 

“ And if he was ter write yer a letter all crinkle-erankled 
over like a bush-fence, would yer read it?” inquired the 
arch rogue. 

“ Bead it ! What, I ? No, I radder tink you’d find 
out,” she said, with emphasis, as if reading had been one 
of her lightest accomplishments. 

“ But yer ’d kinder want to know what was in it, now 
wouldn’t yer ?” 

“ Not a word ! If dat ’ere imperent nigger should 
dare ter sen’ a letter ter me, I’d chuck it right inter de fire, 
see if I wouldn’t.” 

“ Now, would yer ?” said the sly scamp, hitching up 


hagar’s love-letter. 


349 


his shoulders and striking a position, as if he were going 
to break into a double-shuffle, while the hand crept about 
eagerly in his pocket. 

“ Yes, I would ! Dar.” 

“Den chuck dis ’ere varmint goes ! Dar 1” 

The hand was jerked out of his pocket, Pete’s letter 
flew into the midst of a bright blaze and flashed up the 
chimney, a black scroll fringed with scintillations of fire. 

“Why, Dan, what am you ’bout?” cried Hagar, with 
her mouth and eyes wide open. 

“Jest ter save ver de trouble of doin’ it yerself, I’ve 
sent Pete’s letter sky-high — he ! he ! he ! — oh, golly, 
I’se so happy ! Jest come to dis bussom, lubliest ob de 
fair sext. Yer Dan ain’t gwine to derject yer from dat seat 
ob happiness agin nohow. Lubly Hagar, don’t look so 
skeered. I knows yer lub me, — dat ar letter am de proof, 
— and I’se happy as a rabbit in snow-time wid a chunk of 
sweet apple under his nose. Oh, Hagar !” 

While Dan was uttering this speech, and approaching 
Hagar with the most insinuating tenderness, that remark- 
able female had been making up her mind and twisting 
the towel at the same moment. When he stooped gal- 
lantly to gather the sable roses from her hot cheek, her arm 
flew back, and crash came the twisted towel on his head, 
with a force and precision that made Dan dash into a 
breakdown at once. Hagar, half crying, and yet shriek- 
ing with delight, prepared herself for another onset, but 
Dan, seeing her design, bolted through the out-door and 
fled for the barn. 

That night, I am grieved to say, Dan went supperless 
to bed, on the highest haymow that he could reach by 
desperate climbing, and Hagar, in her lonely room, had 
time to reflect that “ a bird in the hand is worth two in 


350 


1HE REJECTED WIFE. 


the bush,” and that, after all, she could not have read 
Peter’s letter if it had reached her ever so safely. Then 
there was something that touched Hagar in the boldness 
of the burning, and the skill by which she had been led 
to almost authorize it. For the first time, our sable 
damsel began to feel a dawning of pride about her lover. 
Then thrills of fear set in, lest she had gone too far, and 
driven him quite away with her hempen flail. 

All night long she listened for some sound of his return, 
but a dead stillness settled around her, and the heart in 
her honest bosom grew heavy and heavier, till she fell 
asleep with tears swelling under her black eyelids. In 
the morning Hagar arose penitent and subdued. No fire in 
the kitchen — no Dan to fill her tea-kettle and grind the 
rye-coffee, while she prepared the substantial dishes and 
spread the table. This was very lonely after the devotion 
and tender courtship of the days that had gone before. 
Still Hagar hoped and watched ; at every sound her 
heart gave a leap and fell back again, like a trout in its 
brook, but no Dan presented himself. However, like a sen- 
sible woman, Hagar went on with her work ; she cut the 
rosiest slices of ham for his eating, made the coffee as 
strong again as usual, and brought out a lump of the 
richest maple-sugar to sweeten it with. Still no Dan. 

Every thing was ready, — the hot Johnny-cake, the ham, 
with its delicious flavor sending up its steam through a 
brace of fried eggs, that lay crisp and golden on each 
ruddy slice. 

Hagar had no heart to eat her breakfast alone ; so she 
covered the dishes, placed them in a warm corner of the 
hearth, and went forth in search of the lqst one. A for- 
lorn hope led her to the barn. If he had not found shelter 
there what could she do ? Perhaps her cruelty had 


hagae’s love-letter. 


351 


driven him to desperation, and he had taken to dJnk, and 
fallen into total depravity. It seemed an age since she 
had driven the poor fellow forth, — quite long enough for 
a desperate man to work out his ruin, and break her heart 
with the knowledge of it. 

With these penitent feelings Hagar entered the barn 
and looked sorrowfully around. Every thing was still. 
A group of chickens picking up oats from the floor was 
all the sign of life she could discover. But in a desperate 
hope she lifted up her voice, and called out hoarsely, — 

“ Dan ! ho, Dan !” 

No answer, — nothing but a faint rustle of the hay far 
overhead. It might be a chicken building its nest, but 
the sound was not exactly like that. 

“ Dan, oh, speak ! Am yer thar ?’ ’ 

A more decided rustle, and out from the hay a dusky 
head, looking down upon her from a loft far up in the top 
of the barn. 

“ Oh, Dan ! come down, — come down, — Fse so sorry, 
Tend on’t I’ll neber do it agin.” 

“ Oh, Hagar ! how could yer ?” 

“ Come,” said Hagar, rebuked by the tender reproach, 
and lifting her eyes imploringly upwards. “ Come and 
see what I’se got for yer.” 

“ Dat crash towel,” muttered Dan, rubbing his wool 
dolorously. 

“ Oh, Dan ! I’se ’pented ob dat in dust and ashes, — I 
has. So don’t fling it in my face no more. I’se cut one ob 
de new hams, and cooked dem eggs yer brought in last 
ting afore yer went ter town, — and sich a Johnny-cake ! 
Do come afore it’s cold.” 

Dan waited for no more, but came scrambling aown 
from the upper loft, his wool bristling with hay, and his 


352 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


face shining with smiles. At the second mow he made a 
halt, overtaken by a sober second thought. 

“ Hagai',” he said, looking down upon her with benign 
fascination, ‘‘if I comes when yer calls me, and yer should 
trow dem fair arms round dis neck, I should ’predate it 
dis time, and no mistake.” 

Hagar waved her hand with great dignity. 

“ Don’t yer mention it, Dan. I blushes all ober at de 
’membrance ob my indiscreetness. Smudder dat tought 
in yer bussom, and come down ter breakfast. It’s getting 
cold.” 

Dan slid down the hay and lighted on the floor with a 
rebound. Then the two breakfasted lovingly together. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE MINISTER’S FAREWELL. 

A Sabbath day in Xew England. Who can describe 
it ? — the sublime stillness, the hush wdiich falls on every 
living thing, filling the very atmosphere with a spirit of 
prayer. The trees seem to wave their branches as if 
they were palms, ready to be thrown along the pathway 
to church, rendering it more holy. The birds, calmed by 
the profound quiet, float through the air dreamily and 
without fear. So completely does the spirit of God per- 
vade the earth and sky, that whispered thanksgiving 
seems the only language which would not break the charm 
of profound holiness. 

A morning like this dawned on the streets of New 




THE MINISTER’S FAREWELL. 353 

Haven, lighting them half with sunshine, wrapping them 
half in shadows. Every house was still, every footstep 
fell restrainedly on the sidewalk. The college-grounds 
were deserted, and lay spread out beneath the stooping 
elm-trees one carpet of mossy greenness. Through this 
sacred calm, first one bell and then another rung out a 
clear summons to church. Then the streets filled with 
neatly-dressed people, family groups, couples walking 
close' together, and children excited by the bells into 
quicker steps than their parents thought decorous. 

A grave, subdued look was remarkable in all these 
people. Friends scarcely ventured to smile a recognition 
as they met. The little girls cast shy glances at each 
other’s bonnets, and looked down again demure and con- 
science-stricken by their own wicked curiosity. Thus, the 
streets that intersect Yale-College grounds were threaded 
with a kind of life that seemed like absolute stillness. 

Into the various churches these devout people diverged, 
and directly after the bells ceased ringing, the streets were 
empty again. 

One place of worship, a small, new church, that had 
consolidated the worshipers of a home-mission station, 
was more than usually full that Sabbath. The young 
minister, a man so beloved and reverenced in his congre- 
gation that a glow of blessings followed him wherever he 
moved, was that day to take leave of his people. “ It 
might be for years, and it might be forever.” After 
building up the church and converting a handful of 
inquirers into a thriving brotherhood, his health had 
gradually broken down, and a long sea-voyage was 
deemed the only hope left to him. 

It was not remarkable that the good people who entered 
the church should pass up the aisles with sad countenances 

9 . 9 . 


354 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


and lingering steps, or that many a loving eye should 
grow misty as it turned on the minister, when he appeared 
in the dim twilight around the altar more like a ghost 
than a human being. With his eyes bent upon the ground, 
he saw no one, though such yearning looks were fastened 
on him, but moved up to the sacred desk and sunk to his 
knees, it would seem as much from weakness as devotion. 

All the ceremonies of that morning were doubly im- 
pressive from the sadness that lay on the congregation. 
But when the clergyman spoke, — when his altering tones 
were gathered up and poured forth upon the audience, — 
one deep throb of sympathy beat from heart to heart, 
filling the whole church with sorrow. 

The discourse was a strange one. The pastor who had 
done so much for them, whose lips had been so exemplary 
that he was considered “ little less than the angels,” seemed 
pleading with his people for forgiveness of some great 
transgression, — for shortcomings and backslidings of which 
no one believed him capable. As he warmed and grew 
more earnest, his startling eloquence swelled over them 
like cries of loving anguish. His voice thrilled with the 
pathos of unshed tears. There was no argument in his 
sermons, — scarcely an attempt at method ; — but every 
sentence went trembling from soul to soul with solemnity 
and power. 

When the sermon was over, — when the last farewell was 
taken and the minister lifted his shaking hands in bene- 
diction, — the suppressed grief broke out ; sobs rose from 
various parts of the house, and tearful eyes looked into 
each other claiming sympathy. Long after other worship- 
ers had left their sanctuaries, the congregation remained 
together, hovering around the church, or standing sadly in 
the pews, waiting for the pastor to come forth. 


THE MINISTER’S FAREWELL. 855 


He tried to avoid these simple, loving people, whose 
wealth of affection oppressed him, and there, in the dim 
vestry sat, motionless, with the sacred vestments still 
shrouding his person, and the heart under them ready to 
break. 

He arose at last, slowly and sadly divested himself of 
gown and band, cast one look around the little room, twice 
sacred to him, and went drearily forth. The church was 
yet full. He recoiled a moment, trembling with a new 
shock, then walked down the aisle with a mournful smile 
on his lip, saying farewell, and hearing nothing but 
blessings till he came to the door. There a sorrowing 
crowd gathered around him, swelling the tide of anguish 
till speech forsook him, and, with a pathetic gesture, he 
passed from among them. The pastor went home slowly, 
with his head bent down, and his sorrowful eyes too weary 
for uplifting. A white garment fluttered before him, foot- 
steps lingered on the grass by the unpaved street he was 
treading. At first he took no heed, but after a little a 
subtle thrill stirred his heart, and he looked up. A fair 
young girl was before him gliding over the grass with 
sorrowful slowness. She paused an instant, — hesitated 
and turned as if to go back. Then he saw her face 
clearly, — its troubled paleness and the look of suppressed 
tears that left deep bluish shadows around the eyes, and 
a flush upon the drooping lids. 

They stood thus, face to face, looking at each other, 
with yearning sorrow. The girl must have stepped for- 
ward first ; for he stood motionless. During one instant 
their hands clasped, neither spoke, — a look — oh, how 
much more pathetic than words ! — passed between them, 
and they parted in painful quietness. 

He stood mute and still a little time after she passed 


356 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


from his sight, not in reflection, but dumb, as if his guard- 
ian angel had just looked upon him and fled, after seeing 
what manner of man he was. Then he turned suddenly, 
resolved to speak out the love that had so long slept, a 
mute blessing in his innermost heart ; but in the anguish 
of that farewell she had walked rapidly, and the flutter 
of her cloud-like garments among the shrubbery around a 
cottage-house which was her home, sent back a shadowy 
farewell. Then the usual fiend that tortured him came 
in, goading that sensitive conscience with its sharp 
memories. 

“Who am I, and what am I, that this hand should 
thrill so after her clasp, — or these lips dare to syllable her 
name,” he muttered, despondently. “ God forgive me 
this wild thought. Ah me ! Hereafter, I must lead a lonely 
life, and ask nothing of my Lord but mercy and forgive- 
ness.” 

He lifted his eyes to heaven, and God’s light that fell 
from thence, revealed how sad they were. 

“ It was only for a moment,” he murmured ; u only for 
one little moment. I do not struggle, Lord. I do not 
complain. Was not the divine Jesus lonely as a man, — 
was not his holy nature tortured while in thraldom with 
humanity ? Is it hard, then, that I, so frail, so wicked, 
with sin burning red on my forehead, should pass through 
life a lonely being, — an exile whose hopes all lie in the 
hereafter ?” 

He looked back once more through the misty sorrow 
that vailed his eyes. One of the cottage windows was 
open, and through it appeared a white figure leaning out, 
as if eager to lessen the space that lay between her and 
the unhappy object she was gazing on. She saw that he 
was regarding her, but gave no signal that would have 


DOUBLE TIES. 


857 


seemed sacrilegious on the holy day ; but, unconsciously, 
she stretched forth her arms, the wind caught in her loose 
sleeves and they fluttered out like wings that quivered 
with desire to flee towards him. 

Then, with a deep sigh, the minister moved homeward, 
comforted, and smitten with holy tenderness. It seemed 
to him as if for one little moment an angel of God’s own 
sending had hovered over him. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

DOUBLE TIES. 

When the marriage of Lamra de Montreuil was settled 
upon, her brother, always kind and over-indulgent, pur- 
chased one of those fine, old mansions that are now almost 
swept away from the shades of Xew Haven, and fitted it 
up for her future home. With the quick tact which 
accompanies refinement like his, he saw that the future 
bridegroom would be best pleased by a broad display of 
that wealth and elegance which it had always been his 
ambition to obtain. So he gave way to Laura’s rather 
sumptuous taste, and out of the fine old mansion, with its 
grounds stiffly ornamented with box borders, tali poplars, 
and groups of old-fashioned shrubbery, she wrought for 
herself and lover a sort of fairy palace. Silken and 
snowy draperies floated over the windows. Thick carpets 
yielded, like wood-moss, to the tread. Chairs, sofas, and 
cabinets that might have graced the room of a court lady, 
gave imposing grandeur to the low-ceiled rooms and 


858 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


heavy man depieces ; andirons of bronze and glittering 
brass stood guard in each broad fire-place, and upon the 
upper leaf of the massive hall-door, a ponderous brass 
knocker reverberated the announcement of each visitor as 
he entered the house. 

The house was cheery and sumptuous, consequently the 
more fit for that brilliant and queenly girl who seemed 
born for a palace, and to be the sovereign of any hall 
she trod. 

Laura, like many another loving and noble girl, could 
have made herself content in any place with the husband 
of her choice ; but she was not the less in love, or the 
less charming, because the power of gathering objects of 
beauty around her existed to an almost unlimited extent. 
She had been accustomed to beautiful surroundings all 
her life, and in her own nature was luxurious. But, deep 
beneath all this, lay a character so grand and strong that 
she could have flung all these outside belongings from her 
life without a sigh, had the real good of a beloved object 
required it. 

But the luxuries which wealth gi^es are pleasant things, 
and love nestled in velvet is not the less love, if the 
spirit of self-sacrifice broods there even with folded 
wings. 

With Laura, life was full of superb happiness. Proud 
of her lover, glorying in his fine person and strong charac- 
ter, she worshiped where a weaker woman would only have 
loved. Shq exulted in the power of bestowing upon the 
princely man — for such he was to her — opulence that a 
monarch might have been content with. If she could 
have gathered the rosy clouds of morning, and looped 
them above his ^ouch with stars from heaven, she would 
have left the skies so much darker for his sake. His step, 


DOUBLE TIES. 


359 


as it fell on the oaken floor of the hall, thrilled her like 
music ; his smile made her happiness more perfect ; her 
cheek bloomed and her lips parted redder beneath it. The 
white eyelids grew tremulous as they drooped to shade 
the exquisite joy that sparkled beneath them. At such 
times love made her very, very beautiful. 

Arnold was happy, too, after a fashion. Indeed, it 
may be considered doubtful if men like him, wax in prin- 
ciple and iron in self-love, can ever experience those keen 
regrets which wing every wrong with a pang to those of 
more sensitive natures. With his strong, hard, fervid 
character, to will w~as to be right, and every effort of con- 
science to reach his heart, fell away unheeded as rain drips 
from the plumage of a bird, only touching the outer sur- 
face. Strange as it may seem, the young man was 
cheerful ; for, with the arrogance of a powerful organiza- 
tion, he looked with contempt upon the efforts of those 
less boldly gifted, and had cast all fear of consequences 
from his mind. Was that weak, pretty girl by the saw- 
mill at Yantic Falls to break up his magnificent fortunes, — 
she who still blushed with pleasure if he but looked upon 
her ? As for “ the old folks at home,” were they not 
chained to his wishes by their own exceeding love for 
himself ? Besides, if they attempted any annoyance, was 
ho not equal to the occasion ? 

Arnold was a traitor, but never a coward ! His sins 
were all strong and audacious. .Money, pomp, and power 
were his ruling passion. To the shrine of ambition he 
was leady to lay down every honest affection, every hon- 
orable feeling. The glitter of life won his idolatry : its 
solid gold he trampled under foot, without feeling its value 
or regretting its loss. 

Thus Arnold was happy — if the best moments of such 


360 


THE KEJECTED WIFE: 


men can be called happiness — even in committing an act 
of domestic treason more cruel than that which has left his 
name black on the lips of posterity. His intellect was 
powerful, its perversion complete ; while the feeble con- 
science, that sometimes fluttered through his better mo- 
ments, was like a helpless bird beating its way through a 
storm. 

Another man would have asked for a quiet, if not secret 
marriage ; but to Arnold half his ideas of happiness lay 
m the eclat of a splendid festival. So, with his usual 
reckless daring, he sent out boldly and proclaimed his 
coming grandeur, by scattering invitations far and near. 
With him success was nothing, if the world were not 
challenged to admire and envy. 

When Paul de Montreuil returned from Norwich, bring- 
ing word that the whole Arnold family would come to 
♦ the wedding, Arnold asked a few careless questions about 
his visits, and, among others, if he had seen any thing of 
the Leonards. 

Yes, — Paul remembered seeing Joshua Leonard swing- 
ing some children in the minister’s orchard, and having ad- 
mired the pretty Amy as she came in from a supper-table 
under the apple-trees, where she had been busy as a bee, 
her companions told him. 

Arnold listened attentively, and a cloud came to his 
forehead. Did he wish to hear that Amy was pining her- 
self to death ? Could his clamorous self-love be appeased 
with nothing less than that ? 

After this conversation Paul relapsed into uneasy 
silence. The color — a strange thing — came and went in 
his face. Laura, who came in just then, saw his em- 
barrassment, and vaguely guessed its cause. She drew 
dose to her brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. 


DOUBLE TIES. 


861 


“ And Hannah, Benedict’s sister, — you say nothing of 
her, Paul ?” 

The young man was grateful for this gentle interpo- 
sition, and, turning his head, smiled upon her. 

Oh, yes!” he answered. “I saw Hannah. Indeed, 
it was for that purpose I went to Norwich.” 

Arnold was walking towards the window. He turned 
suddenly, and his face flushed with eager satisfaction. 

Paul saw the look, and was reassured. 

“ Of course,” he said, addressing Laura, but keeping a 
furtive glance on Arnold, “ of course, you must have sus- 
pected that some little private interests of my own made 
me so amiable. One does not take journeys of that 
length more than once just to leave his sister’s wedding- 
invitations. ” 

“ Brother, oh, brother ! are you in earnest, — real, solemn 
earnest ? Did love of Hannah Arnold take you there ? * 

Is it all settled ? Does she care about you ? Dear old 
fellow, how I love you ! Don’t answer. When a De 
Montreuil blushes it means love, — successful love. We 
turn pale when things go against us. Don’t we, Paul ? 

— grow white, and creep away chilled all over. Now that 
I have got my breath, tell me all about it, you precious 
old darling.” 

Laura sat down on a cushioned stool that chanced to 
be near the easy-chair in which Paul was sitting, and, lean- 
ing both elbows on his knee, dropped her chin into the 
palm of one hand, composing herself to listen. 

“Now, cherej tell me all about it. I’m quite ready to 
listen.” 

“ Tell you all about what, fair lady ?” said Paul, with 
a teasing smile. 

“Why, how you managed to make the demure little 


362 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


angel come to terms ; wliat the dear old people said ; 
and, better than all, how Hagar and Dan took the news. 
Oh, I would give the world to see Hagar strutting about 
in the glory of two weddings. ” 

“Well, dear, as you will have all the particulars, let 
me sum them up in a few words. I have proposed for 
Miss Arnold, and would tell you how, only that I don’t 
quite remember exactly myself, — being deucedly fright- 
ened, spite of the impudence you give me credit for.” 

“ Proposed ! of course you proposed ; but did she 
accept, poor, little, modest puss ? and if she did, where 
on earth could she find words to express it in ?” 

“ Really, sister, you are too much for me. Have not I 
told you that I was half frightened to death myself ? Think 
what it must have been with her,” answered Paul, smiling 
happily on the beautiful face uplifted to his with such 
eager delight. “All I know is, that she accepted me.” 

“ The darling, — the sweet dove-eyed angel ! How I love 
her,” cried Laura, snatching Paul’s hand to her lips and 
kissing it. “ Come here, Arnold. Are you listening to all 
this ? he is to be your brother twice over. Was ever any 
thing so charming ?” 

Arnold came forward with his hand extended. Real 
pleasure beamed in his face. 

“De Montreuil, I congratulate you, and a thousand 
times over congratulate myself. She is a good, lovely 
girl, this sister of mine. You cannot fail to be happy.” 

Arnold’s face was grand then ; indeed, when holy feel- 
ings rose uppermost in his heart a wonderful power of 
beauty broke over his face. Laura saw the pure look 
and her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Oh, brother, Arnold, what have we done to deserve 
such happiness !” she said. 


DOUBLE TIES. 


363 


Paul bent down and kissed her forehead. His dark 
eyes were full of heart-dew, his finely cut lips quivered 
with intense feeling. 

“ We must try to deserve it and be grateful for it,” he 
said. And putting her gently aside, Paul left the room. 

Laura went up to Arnold in the excess of her joy, and 
stealing an arm around his neck, crept close to his bosom. 
“ Tell me, love, isn’t this happiness ?” she said. “ The 
bonds that unite us will fee so strong. ” 

Arnold strained her to his heart. The ruling passion 
of his life was so near its gratification that this affectionate 
demonstration was a genuine impulse. 

“Ah me !” murmured Laura, drawing a deep breath as 
he released her. “ Can this happiness last ? Will God 
always permit so much of heaven to his creatures here V 9 
A shade came over Arnold’s face. He turned away 
abruptly, and Laura went out with tears of supreme bliss 
trembling in her eyes. 

Arnold w T atched her with anxiety. Her happiness did, 
indeed, seem too much. It was almost wearisome to 
be loved so entirely. What if she found him out ? What 
if this new tie between the families should lead Paul to 
uncontrolled intimacy with the people of Norwich ? Amy 
and his sister were fast friends. Would that wronged 
young creature keep her secret and her promise ? Well, 
if she did not, was he unprepared ? How could she 
prove a ceremony of which only one witness existed, and 
that one upon the ocean, which was sure to be the case, 
long before poor little Amy could cry out under her wrongs 
But would she make an effort to stem the evils of hei 
destiny, bound as she was by a solemn promise ? “No !” 
he answered to his thought, in a voice firm with con vie 
tion. “No, no. She is true as steel. True as steel.” 


364 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


After this exclamation, which sprang out of his faith in 
the woman he had wronged, Arnold cast the whole ha- 
rassing subject from his mind. Was he not twice safe — 
safe in the pledge of secresy planted in that young heart — 
safe in her utter helplessness and lack of proof? The face 
of the hard man cleared up radiantly. What, a double 
marriage ! would all the vast wealth of the De Montreuils 
pass into his own family ? He had accomplished all this, 
and how ? By sweeping aside scruples over which 
common men stumbled or stood still. How the man 
gloried over his own hardihood ! 

Laura was happy as a bird of paradise. Hannah, 
whom she loved so, should be twice her sister. Bound 
to her and her idol by new ties, she could hardly believe 
in her own happiness : it seemed fabulous. Paul was 
content, and Arnold, assured of the power to carry out 
bis purpose, gave himself up to bright hopes, while each 
day the wedding drew nearer. 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER IN A BLACK HEART. 

Yes, the two household-servants at Arnold’s farm 
breakfasted lovingly together, there is no doubt of that. 
But when the green-eyed monster once gets possession of 
a man, it is not to be drawn out with a few soft words 
and a comfortable breakfast. These things may hold the 
fiend at abeyance, but he is sure to be found couchant 


THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 365 

somewhere in the soul, ready for a spring on the first pro- 
vocation. 

So it was with Dan. No sooner had he accepted 
Hagar’s submission than thoughts of Peter’s letter came 
back with bitter force. What right had that city-negro 
to correspond with the betrothed of his own sable bosom ? 
What did that letter contain ? If Hagar had allowed the 
city exquisite to commit himself in writing, what tender 
words, what perfidious encouragement must have pre- 
ceded it ? Oh, if he had not burned the letter, but 
carried it in his trowsers-pocket till some kind white man 
might have been found to read it for him ! 

Thus reflected poor Othello, and the thought burned 
darkly within him while he wandered around the farm, or 
sat on a broken cart whittling an eyelet-pin for Hagar, 
which he in the end threw away. Dismounting from the 
cart he wandered moodily across the yard, picking up corn- 
cobs and jerking them right and left as he moved along. 
For once jealousy made the lazy negro almost energetic. 
A fence was broken back of the house, and in his desper- 
ation he resolved to mend it. With his ponderous step a 
little quickened, he moved across the garden through a 
side-gate into a pasture-lot blooming thickly w r ith white 
clover. His great feet crushed down the fragrant blos- 
soms, leaving clouds of perfume behind them. He heeded 
nothing of this, but lumbered on, swinging his long arms 
and frowning gloomily. 

All at once Dan paused, for in a corner of the lot, shel- 
tered by an angle of the stone-wall, something whiter than 
the clover attracted his attention, — something that looked 
like little patches and handfuls of snow, left to melt in the 
grass. 

Dan was a curious negro, and at any time would have 


366 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


paused to satisfy himself about this unusual appearance. 
He wheeled about, took a cross-cut, wading ankle-deep 
through the tangled grass and blossoms, till he came out 
close by the white mystery. Here he paused, his great 
eyes rolling fearfully, and his thick lips parted. He took 
off his hat by the torn brim, and after bending his head in 
deep reflection a moment, grasped one hand into his wool, 
and gave it a fierce tug that brought the water into his 
eyes. 

Dan’s emotions were beyond his strength to bear. He 
looked wildly around for some place of rest, made a fierce 
dive at the stone -wall, and scrambled up it. Once on the 
top, he sat down, with both great feet swinging loose and 
both long arms folded despondingly on his breast. The 
little garments which Hagar had spread out to whiten 
among the pure clover-tops lay an accusing evidence at 
his feet. 

What he saw was enough. The whole force of human 
desolation fell upon him. Here lay the hideous secret. 
This was why he had been driven from the kitchen so 
persistently on one particular washing-day. Here, in this 
snug corner, thinking that the masses of white clover 
would conceal the iniquitous secret, Hagar had spread the 
evidence of her faithlessness. No doubt she was married 
to that infamous Peter. His Hagar — the fair hand which 
had worked corn-bread for him and broken it, too, that 
very morning — was given to another. 

Dan’s head reeled and his heart ached. In the desper- 
ation of his anguish, he flung up both arms, lost his bal- 
ance, and rolled down into the clover, grinding his teeth 
as he went. He made no effort to gi^ther himself up, but 
lay prone upon the earth, grasping out with his hands 
In their writhing his long fingers clutched what seemed to 


THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 307 


be a cobweb. He lifted the object up between his eyes 
and the sun. A mite of a cap, frosted with fairy-like 
work, trembled like foam in his black clutch. Dan clenched 
the bit of lace in his fist and shook the fist fiercely at the 
sky in general : then in a paroxysm of jealous rage he 
dashed at the filmy morsel like a hungry cur, and began 
to tear it with his white teeth. In the midst of this 
savage onset he flung the fragments away, and turning 
upon his face began to cry. 

“ Oh, Hagar, Hagar, how could you serbe a poor feller 
so ! Did not yer know how I lubed yer ? Oh, golly, 
golly, I only wish I could die right off, I’se so miserable, 
I is. Lord a massy, what has I done, what has I done 
dat de gal I lubed should sarve me so ?” 

After this tender outburst Dan spread himself dolefully 
on the grass and subsided into a tropical gust of tears. 

As he lay with his face downwards and his broad 
shoulders heaving with sobs, Hagar * came across the 
field, with a wooden pail in one hand and a square of hard 
soap in the other. Dan lay within the shadow of the 
wall, and she did not see him at first, but set her pail 
down, dropped the piece of soap into the water it con- 
tained, and began at once to splash up a foam of suds 
that soon creamed over its sides. 

As the commotion of the water reached Dan’s ears, he 
bold his breath and glanced cautiously up. How inno- 
cent Hagar looked at her genial work ! A smile stirred 
her thick lips, her sharp black eyes, danced pleasantly as 
she watched the foaming suds. Then a fragment of song 
broke forth : 


“ Can’t yer heel that, can’t yer toe that, 
The deck a dora can’t you step tlTat ? 


THE KEJECTED WIFE. 


Stirred to the depths of his soul, Dan sat upright. 
Hagar saw him ; flashed her hands out of the suds and 
shook a rain of drops into the sunshine. 

“ Why, Dan ! Dan, am dat you, or am it yer ghost ? 
I ’care to man, yer scares me a’most ter death. What 
am de matter ? what ’stresses yer now ? Den, agin, 
how comes yer here in de crook of dis farm, where you 
hasn’t no business to be no how ? Dan, I say what am 
de meanin’ ob dis ourdacous freaking, I wants ter know 
now right off ?” 

Dan’s face still bore evidence of his grief ; tears rolled 
down his cheeks like drops of water on a seal’s back ; his 
wool stood out torn and fleecy as his frenzied fingers had 
left it. His eyes were turned upon Hagar, full of re- 
proachful misery. 

“ Oh, Hagar, Hagar, how could yer ? How could 
yer ?” 

Hagar gave him a long glance, gathered up a handful 
of the little garments and thrust them into the pail with 
warning emphasis. Then dripping the suds from her 
arms, first with one hand then with the other, she stood 
upright confronting him. 

“Now look a-here, Dan, these ere tantrums is beginnin’ 
to rile me up, and I won’t stand ’em. What on yearth 
are yer doin’ ? How corned yer here ? What has yer 
been boo-hooing ’bout thar in the grass ? — found a hen’s 
nest with the eggs spiled, or what ?” 

“ Hagar,” answered Dan, shaking his head and wiping 
the tears from his face with a sweep of his shirt sleeve, 
but shrinking within himself all the time. “ Oh, Hagar !” 

“ Well, what am it ?” 

“ Oh, Hagar, how can yer look in dis face wid dem 
perfiderous eyes, — how can yer ?” 


TEE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 369 

Hagar put a hand on each side her trim waist and made 
one step forward. 

Dan commenced shrinking into himself like a turtle 
drawing itself into its shell. 

“ What am it yer drivin’ at ? Why shouldn’t I look at 
yer face jist as much as I likes ? dat am de question for us 
two at dis time, so speak up. What’s der trouble, — am 
yer under convection, Dan ? Hab der ’vival catched yer 
black heart at last? Yer looks like it, kinder skeered 
and kinder I don’t know what.” 

Dan gathered himself up from the ground and sup- 
ported his heavy body by the wall, looking as if he would 
have drawn back through the stones had that been possible. 

“ No, Hagar,” he said, “I isn’t under ’viction. Der 
Vival hasn’t catched dis chile, but yit I’se on der anxious 
seat; and it’s yerself, Hagar, as has put me thar.” 

“What, I, I! Dan, didn’t we make up dis berry 
mornin’? Didn’t yer leave yer Hagar as happy as a 
bumble-bee on a thistle ? Now du tell me what am it as 
sets heavy on dat heart.” 

“ I will,” said Dan, pointing to the grass with tragic 
dignity. “ Hagar, it am them.” 

Hagar made a sweep at the little garments and huddled 
them into the pail. Her cheeks grew blacker, her teeth 
gleamed. What did Dan mean? How dared he ? 

“Dan,” she said, “yer am der audaceousest nigger dat 
ever did live.” 

“ No wonder yer scrouge ’em inter dat pail — no wonder 
yer eyes doesn’t look straight inter mine. Oh, Hagar ! 
Hagar ! own up to once, and let dis heart bust.” 

“ It ed sarve it right if it war busted now,” answered 
Hagar, indignantly. “Jest say what I’m ter own up to, 

dat’s all.” 

23 


870 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

“ Jest say out, fair an square, ‘ I lub Peter. ’ ” 

“ Pete,” exclaimed Hagar, “ I’d jest a leave say it as 
not, if it was only to torment yer. But it aint true, and 
so I won’t. ” 

“ Say dat yer married to him,” cried Dan, wringing his 
hands at the thought. 

“I won’t, Dan, ’cause I isn’t. Thar.” 

“ You ain’t ?” 

“ No, I isn’t.” 

“ Oh, Hagar !” 

“ Oh, Dan, how could yer tink sech a ting ’bout me ?” 

“ Say it agin, Hagar. Say as you isn’t married to him, 
and neber was, and ain’t a-goin’ .to be, foreber and eber.” 

“ Wal, Dan, I says dat.” 

“ Yer duz ?” 

“Yes, I duz, ober and ober again.” 

“ Come ter my bussum, — no, no, I darsn’t mean it, — 
aat is jest now, fore dat ’spicious minute arrives. I jest 
want ter know de meaning ob dis camp-meeting ob tings. 
Am dey yours ?” 

“ What ! dese, Dan ? Duz yer mean ter ’suit me ?” 

“ ’Suit yer ? No ; but if de tings ain’t yours, whose 
am dey ?” 

“ Daniel,” cried Hagar, going close to the wall and 
touching the jealous negro with her hand, “ Daniel, am 
yer a gemman ?” 

“ Wal, I reckon I is.” 

“Den don’t ax me any more questions.” 

“ I won’t, Hagar. Only tell me one ting.” 

“Well, say ’em quick.” 

“ If yer ain’t goin’ ter marry nobody else, and if yer lub 
dis chil’ as yer ought ter, jest set de happy day, Hagar 


FOLLOWING AFTER. 371 

You and I is bound ter set a sample ob lovable ferlicity 
ter dis household.” 

“ No,” said Hagar, gathering herself up with dignity, 
“ not so long as you can ’spect de ’tegrity ob dis indi- 
widual.” 

“ Hagar, I doesn’t ’spect yer.” 

4 But yer will. ” 

“ Neber/neber, lubly one.” 

“But you’ll ask questions.” 

“ Jest try me, dat’s all.” 

“Well, Dan, take up dat pail and bring it inter de 
kitchen.” 

Dan took up the pail with touching humility, and Hagar 
walked triumphantly by his side, with her head uplifted, 
and her active feet scarcely bending the clover tops in her 
path. This time the reconciliation was complete. 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

FOLLOWING AFTER. 

The cabin on the Yantic was a sad, sad home after Amy 
left it. Since the minister’s festival it had been a house 
of sorrow, but now, that she was gone, — utterly gone, — a 
sense of desolation settled there which seemed almost 
worse than death. It must be a terrible calamity which 
prevents a Xew England woman from doing her house- 
hold work in season. Mrs. Leonard was faithful as ever 
in this respect ; but the method, — that was all changed. 
Her steps grew heavy, as if old age had suddenly fallen 


372 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


upon her. She went about her duties in a dull mechani- 
cal way, never smiling, and never stopping to scold. The 
cat might have curled itself to sleep on the layers of white 
cloth that covered the yeasting bread, and she would 
scarcely have boxed its ears. The poor woman was so 
still and mournfully quiet that her cabin seemed like a 
tomb. 

It was scarcely better with the strong man, Leonard. 
He had no heart for work, and yet labored diligently. 
The saw never stopped in its course without arousing him 
from a deep revery. He would stand, with folded arms, 
and watch its glittering teeth eat through the heart of an 
oak log, as unconscious of its progress as the boards that 
lay around him. He had fallen away greatly in his per- 
son and the clothes that had been a close fit in the winter 
now hung loosely around his reduced figure. With the 
farmers, who brought logs to the mill, he was reserved, 
and they thought sullen. If any of them began to talk 
of his daughter, which was often the case, even with his 
kindest-hearted neighbors, he would listen gravely, and 
make such brief reply, that they ventured no farther. 

Sometimes, Leonard would leave the mill for hours, 
and stray away along the margin of the falls to the ledge 
of rocks, on which he and the elder Arnold had met in 
prayer on that cold winter day. The ledge was plea- 
santer now : cushions of velvet moss covered it with a rich 
greenness that was kept bright as emeralds by the spray. 
Great hemlock and pine branches bent their darker tints 
over it. The waters were all unchained, and rioted glo- 
riously under the warm sunshine. But all this gave 
Leonard no comfort. He would have preferred bleak 
winds, and cold, drifting snow. There the good man 
would kneel down, sorrowful, humbly, and covering his 


FOLLOWING AFTER. 


373 


face with both hands, wait for God to have compassion on 
him. He did not pray aloud ; there was no power of 
eloquence on his lips then. God had smitten him in his 
love and in his pride, so he fell upon his face, in meek 
faith, and hushed his aching .heart into patience. 

One day, — it was the third, I think, after Amy left 
him, — he had been sitting alone upon the ledge, thinking 
of her, when a flood of yearning tenderness came to his 
heart, so suddenly, that he burst into tears and sobbed 
aloud. His child seemed close to him, drawing him with 
an impalpable touch of her hands to follow after her. 
There was something so real in the impressioq^fchat he 
stood up, and wiping the tears from his face, almost 
smiled. 

“Yes, darling, I will come,” he said aloud. “How 
did I ever find the heart to let you go without me ?” A 
bird, perched upon the hemlock behind him, burst into 
song, as he spoke, and its ecstasy of music confirmed the 
pathetic pleading of his heart. He looked up at the 
bird, thankfully. His soul was full of poetic faith. 
Had not God once vouchsafed to make an innocent bird 
his messenger ? 

With a lighter step than he had used for weeks, Leonard 
left the rocks and went home. His wife had been spin- 
ning near the door. He saw her through the opening; 
but there was no whirr of the flyers, no flutter of her ac- 
tive fingers around the flax. He moved nearer and saw 
that her hands were clasped on the edge of the motion- 
less wheel. Her face had fallen upon them, and by the 
motion of her shoulders he saw that she was crying. He 
drew nearer and spoke. 

“ Wife.” 

She lifted her head, and tried to put back a lock of wet, 


374 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


gray hair that had strayed from under her cap. But her 
hands trembled piteously, and she let them fall upon the 
wheel again. Leonard put the hair back tenderly, and 
kissed her forehead ; for he saw that the last few weeks 
had left but little of the original brown for her cap to 
conceal. 

“ Oh, Joshua ! if I could only follow her ! My heart is 
breaking to see Amy.” 

Leonard kept his hard hand on her head, — his face 
lighted up as he bent over her. 

“ How could we find the heart to let her go without 
us !” c^)d the poor mother, lifting both her hands, and 
clasping them over his. “ She was our only child, 
Joshua.” 

“ Get up, wife. Put away your wheel, and make 
ready. We will follow our child.” 

“ Joshua ! oh, Joshua ! are you in earnest ?” 

“Yes; we will go.” 

“ How ? how ? — on foot ? Oh, I can walk ! You are a 
strong man, and I haven’t been so well lately, but you 
shall not outwalk me. How many days will it take ? No 
matter. I feel young again. Can we start right off? 
Perhaps, — perhaps we might take the wagon.” 

“We could not walk, wife. Providence has provided a 
better way for u’s than the wagon.” 

“ Oh, husband, how thankful I am to Providence !” 

“ We have need. Another sloop will sail down the 
river to-night. Get every thing ready, and we will go 
m it.” 

Mrs. Leonard started up, and seizing her fly-wheel 
carried it off to the garret, where she forgot to unload it. 
Then she came down-stairs again with a pillow-case in 
her hand, which she carried to a corner cupboard and 


FOLLOWING AFTER. 375 

began to fill promiscuously with biscuit, dried beef, dough- 
nuts, and a quarter section of cheese. 

“ Where are you going, Joshua ?” she called out, as her 
husband took his hat. “ Where are you going ?” She 
had no time to look after him, but tied one end of the 
pillow-case in a huge knot, and set it down to the floor 
as she spoke. 

“ I must go over to town and get some money. There 
isn’t enough in the house, I’m afraid,” he answered. 

“ Come back, Joshua, come back. I can’t bear to trust 
you out of my sight ; it wouldn’t seem like a reality if I 
did. As for the money, — look here !” She we$t to the 
clock, opened the narrow door in its case, and thrusting 
her arm into the opening, drew forth a shot-bag half full 
of coin, her accumulated savings for twenty years. 

‘‘I don’t know what it will cost,” she said, seating her- 
self, and pouring the money into her lap ; “ but here must 
be enough and to spare. I saved every sixpence of it for 
her ‘ setting-out,’ but you shall have it all. I ought to 
have been ashamed to hoard it up away from you, though 
it was for her. Here, — just put it back into the bag ; my 
hands shake so, I can’t. But it’s with joy, — don’t think 
it’s with any thing but joy, husband.” 

I am afraid that Leonard’s hands were not quite steady 
as he gathered the money from his wife’s lap and put it 
in the shot-bag again. He was thinking how much in his 
superior intellect he had underrated that genuine womanly 
nature. Now that affection had refined and elevated her 
he could see how good she was. 

In a house like that there was little need of elaborate 
preparation. A second pillow-case was soon filled with the 
last articles of Mrs. Leonard’s wardrobe, and a pair of 
saddle bags proved sufficient for Leonard’s Sunday clothes 


376 


THE .REJECTED WIFE. 


and a change or two of linen. When these were placed 
in the one-horse wagon, Leonard went down to the mill 
and posted a written notice of his absence in a conspic- 
uous place, while his* wife drew in the leathern latch- 
string and crept out of the window, with full assurance 
that their property would be safe till their return. 

The reader must understand that a journey, or rather voy- 
age, from Norwich to New Haven was a momentous under- 
taking in those times, and on ordinary occasions produced 
no little excitement. But though the bustle of preparation 
lifted this good couple out of their sorrow for a time, it 
had no power to make them forget how painful was the 
errand which took them from home. Sudden as her de- 
parture had been, Mrs. Leonard bethought herself of 
Hagar, who might have some message to send to her 
mistress, and asked her husband to drive round by the 
homestead on his way to the sloop. 

They found Hagar in a state of benign happiness. Her 
reconciliation with Dan had been followed by so many 
loving protestations, and their future store of bliss had 
been so completely discussed, that Hagar took upon her- 
self the dignity of a married woman at once, though she 
held poor Dan at a tremendous distance in fact, and kept 
him in a state of probation that tested his constancy to 
the utmost. Never in his whole life had Dan, in a given 
time, rolled so many back-logs, split so much oven-wood, 
or shelled so many baskets of corn, or had proved his 
desire to please Hagar, since the family went away. 

When the Leonards drove up, Hagar was standing at 
the front door, shading her eyes with one hand, at a loss 
to make out who her visitors were. But the moment she 
recognized them, the hand fell, and she hurried out to the 
gate, rejoiced to see the good couple abroad again. 


FOLLOWING AFTER. 


377 


“ Why, Miss Arnold, am dat you ? Well, if yer don’t 
both look jest as nat’ral as can be, only a leetle more so. 
If I wasn’t a-tellin’ our Daniel dis ’ere mornin’, — sez I, 
Dan, I’d give all my old shoes, and yourn to boot, jest ter 
see neighbor Leonard and his wife a-comin’ ober here ter 
take tea wid our folks, jest as dey were usen ter ; and sez 
he, ‘ Hagar,’ sez he, 1 it ed make my ferlicity too extra 
arter what you and I knows on.’ But come in. Gracious 
me, yer don’t say as yer won’t get out ! What, goin’ ’way 
from hum ! Goin’ in de sloop ter New Haven ! See our 
folks ! Why, yer eenamost skare the breath out ob dis 
body. Well, anyhow, yer must come in, if it’s only ter tell 
’em how yer found things a-goin’ on. I never should 
git ober it if yer didn’t.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Leonard, always ready to make 
others happy in her homely way , — 11 very well, Hagar. 
We’ll just step into the kitchen and take a drink of milk 
We come away in such a' hurry that both of us forgot 
about dinner.” 

“ Yer welcome ter ebery ting in de house, and I reckon 
yer won’t find any ting a-going wrong ter tell our folks 
about.” 

Hagar marched into the house, and led the way from 
room to room, insisting that Mrs. Leonard should satisfy 
herself of the good condition, and report accordingly, till 
they at length landed in the kitchen. 

“ Now,” said Hagar, “you jest set down and kinder 
rest a minute, while Mr. Leonard gibs a peek inter de 
barn. I reckon he’ll find Mr. Daniel hard at work. 
Now, I tell yer, Mr. Leonard, that inderwidual is awful 
smart, awful.” 

With her black face all in a quiver of delight, Hagar 
flung the barn-door wide open, and revealed Dan sitting 


378 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


astride a shovel, which was placed with the handle on a 
log of wood, and the iron part resting on the edge of a 
huge corn-basket, which he should have been filling with 
kernels. His arms were folded loosely, and his black face 
fell on his bosom. He was fast asleep. Hagar started 
forward, leaving Leonard in the background. 

“ Dan, yer lazy nigger,” she cried, stung with mortifi- 
cation, “ am dis der way yer shells corn ?” 

Dan started up, blinked his eyes like an owl, and making 
a dive at the pile of ears heaped near him, dashed one 
against the edge of the shovel, and sent the corn flying 
like golden rain into the basket. 

Hagar, a little mollified, went close to him. 

“ Oh, Dan ! Dan ! how could yer ? — afore folks, too !” 

Dan held his ear of corn motionless against the edge 
of the shovel, and lifted his eyes to Hagar. 

“ Yer didn’t think as dis chile was ’sleep, now, did yer, 
Hagar ? Not a bit on it. I was only a remuneratin’ 
ober der sea ob ferlicity dat dis cullud pusson is a-sailin’ 
in. I’se so happy, Hagar, dat; now and den I must stop 
work ter take a dive.” 

Hagar folded her arms, and looking severely down on 
her lover shook her head. 

“ Oh, Dan, Dan, ’tain’t ob no use ter play possum wid 
me. I knows ye.” 

“ In course yer dus. Who has got a right ter know 
me if yer hasn’t ?” answered Dan, benignly. “ I’d like 
ter see any udder woman dar;” whereupon Dan fell dili- 
gently to his work, and Hagar followed Mr. Leonard, who 
had returned to the house and was helping his wife into 
the wagon. 

Hagar came up, out of breath. 

“Now Mrs. Leonard, you jes’ gib our bes’ love to de 


FOLLOWING AFTER. 


379 


folks, and toll ’em ebbery ting is going on splendid at der 
farm. Yer kin say as Mr. Daniel works so hard, night 
an’ day, dat he gets clar tuckered out, and eenamost falls 
’sleep ober der corn-basket. Yer might a-seen him yer- 
self.” 

“ I will tell them that every thing is going on right,” 
said Leonard, kindly. 

“And ’bout Miss Amy,” said Hagar, leaning over the 
wagon^wheel, and speaking in a low voice, — “tell her as 
I tinks ’bout her a sight, and if she’s got a frien’ on earth, 
it’s Hagar. Don’t fergit ter say dat.” 

Mrs. Leonard reached forth her hand, and shook that 
which Hagar held forth. 

“ Good-by, Hagar, good-by. I shall never forget your 
kindness to my poor girl, — be sure of that, Hagar. 
Good-by. ” 

The wagpn was on its way, and Mrs. Leonard sent back 
the last words like a benediction. That night the good 
woman sat in the little close cabin of the sloop, a good 
deal saddened after the excitement of getting off. With 
every sound on deck she would start, look eagerly at her 
hnsband, and say, — 

“ Joshua, are we sailing ? Has she left the shore ?” 

At last there was a great tumult over head ; the loud 
tramp of feet, the rushing of cable, and a loud voice giv- 
ing orders ; then a continued vibration, a long, swinging 
motion, and the sloop was on her course. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


THE SHIPWRECK. 

# 

Two vessels, — one steering eastward toward the^ocean, 
one bearing west, — passed each other on the Long Island 
Sound. That going toward the ocean was a staunch brig, 
thoroughly prepared for a long sea- voyage. The other 
was one of those small coasters that ran up and down the 
Connecticut shore at stated intervals. It was a beautiful 
little craft, but altogether unfitted for the rough weather 
and sweeping storms that the brig was likely to encounter. 

The morning had been a pleasant one, and the little 
coaster had ventured nearer the middle of the sound than 
was usual to its cautious commander. Just then he was 
getting a little anxious, for a sudden and rather fierce 
breeze had sprung up. dead against him. The strong 
wind that baffled him swelled the sails of the brig, and 
drove it forward at a dashing rate. It plunged on, 
ploughing up reefs of silver from the deep and flinging 
them back to the sunshine, which broke in fitful gleams 
from a pile of gray clouds that were rolling and heaving 
m the depths of the sky. 

As the two vessels met, — the larger one careering proudly 
through the waters that had already began to lash them* 
selves into a tumult, the little craft struggling like a , 
half-drowned bird in the teeth of the wind, — two figures 
appeared almost opposite each other on the separate 
decks. That on the brig was a tall man, whose hair, 
880 


THE SHIPWRECK. 


881 


taken by the wind and scattered back from the forehead, 
revealed a face that seen once could never be forgotten. 
It was the man whose sermon cast a whole audience into 
tears, in that little church in New Haven. 

The other figure was crowded close to the bulwarks of 
the coaster, and held to them with both hands, while her 
eyes were bent on the brig. The wind had lifted her 
hood, and, seizing upon her^beautiful hair, swept it bank 
from her face, which was kindled with wild enthusiasm. 
The two vessels rushed close together, — so close that there 
was great danger of collision. The man at the helm of 
the coaster strove to veer his craft, but the wind and the 
billows heaved against it too fearfully for that. It strug- 
gled and pitched violently in the water, and must have 
been swept away had the brig turned a dozen feet from 
its course. As it was, the two vessels passed each other 
so closely that spray from the rushing prow of the brig 
fell in showers over the coaster’s deck, and dashed the 
streaming hair of Amy Leonard in wet masses to her 
shoulders. 

That moment the man upon the brig saw her and 
uttered a faint cry, as if a ghost had just drifted up to his 
feet from the waves. He knew the face instantly ; never 
could he mistake those eyes ; the same frightened look 
was in them now that he had seen when she took that 
solemn oath to Arnold. It was she, — the woman whose 
death had been so coarsely proclaimed to him only a week 
before, — there, and alone. 

But the minister had scarcely time to utter a single cry 
and fling out his arm, insanely challenging the coaster to 
stop, when his vessel made a plunge and rushed away, 
leaving the coaster struggling in the teeth of the wind 
The poor little vessel at last fought its way to the main 


382 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


shore, and folded its sails safely in one of the numerous 
coves that such crafts are apt to fly to in a tempest. 

But the brig went boldly out to sea with her sails set, 
— as it were defying the tempest that was looming in its 
path. Still, the minister stayed upon deck, walking up 
and down, in a sort of frenzy. The ship plunged and 
reeled, and threatened to cast him headlong, as he walked ; 
but that mattered nothing. He did not heed the storm, 
or care that it threatened him with danger. The thought 
that he had been betrayed into another sin, — that an inno- 
cent human creature might suffer by it, while he was 
locked up in that reeling prison, drove him wild. He 
looked at the clouds — lead-colored and heavy, that broke, 
and formed, and mustered again, making the very sky 
tumultuous — in dreary dismay. 

He w^as willing to be buffeted by the waves, tossed 
against rocks, hurled from breaker to breaker, if one would 
cast him ashore at last, with just enough of life to right 
the wrong he had done, — and die. 

Osborne knew, well enough, that all this was madness, 
that nothing could release him from those hated planks 
till they had borne him to the tropics : then it would be 
too late ; still the impossibility did not seem real. He 
was in sight of land. The waters which tossed him on- 
ward were buffeting the oceanward shores of Long Is- 
land. The sea was not so rough but that a boat might 
live to reach the nearest point. 

Osborne went to the captain, who was a kind man in his 
way, and asked with eagerness that a boat might be 
lowered to set him on shore. He did not care in what 
place, only that his feet might touch the dry land again. 
The captain laughed, and told him that ministers were 
always cowards, — that the sight of a black cloud in th^ 


THE SHIPWEECK. 


383 


sky was sure to drive them into a panic. As for a boat, 
nothing of the kind that he had on board would live half 
an hour in a sea like that. He being a minister and 
never having sailed before, did not understand the mean- 
ing of those great blue-black clouds mustering up from 
the northeast, or the foam that rose ominously on each 
wave, like an upheaving of snow from the angry waters. 
A boat ! Why he, Captain Hale, was beginning to question 
if his good ship would weather the tempest that threat- 
ened. It had arisen already far beyond all thoughts of a 
boat; besides, every hand would be wanted to work 
the ship. 

The minister saw how mad his project was, and aban- 
doned it in despair; but the heart in his bosom was 
heavy as granite. He was being dragged off, without 
power of resistance, that some great crime might be per- 
petrated in his absence. He began to suspect what that 
issue was. Once he had seen Arnold and the young 
French lady together. He had not thought much of it at 
the time, but now he remembered vividly the happy look 
of her face. 

Osborne was a singularly good man. The reader must 
not judge of him by Arnold’s words, or by the weakness 
he had exhibited in leaving the country. But he carried 
about in his confused memory a vague consciousness that 
he had done the great wrong which Arnold accused him 
of; but this seemed of minor importance to him now. 
If the consequence of his own misdeeds could by any pos- 
sibility injure an innocent person, he stood ready to bring 
condemnation on himself, rather than ruin on another. 
But how could this be accomplished ? The ship rushed 
on, inexorable as fate. No power of man could have 
stopped it; for even then it was tempest-driven, and 


384 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


rushed through the waves with a force that filled every 
one on board with dread. 

Osborne was brave enough then. He was not afraid to 
die. Death had never been the evil, above all others, 
from which he would have shrunk. To a nature like his, 
any thing that destroyed his usefulness, and took away 
his people’s love, was ten thousand times worse than a 
transit, however painful, from one life to another. But, 
when he reflected that his safety might be the salvation 
of others, he, too, watched the mustering storm with keen 
anxiety. If the wind and waves would only go down, the 
captain might be persuaded to set him on shore. He had 
money, and that he was ready to give, — leaving himself 
penniless, — if it would only accomplish his deliverance. 
But, while his soul was torn with impatience, the tempest 
threatened them more and more fiercely. So far as 
it was possible, the sails had been taken in; but one, 
streaming in fragments overhead, was rent off piece by 
piece, and given in rags to the wind. But for this the 
brig would have been scudding under bare poles. The 
wind had changed, and set in shorewards, where a 
line of breakers sent the turbulent whiteness upwards in 
masses, and hurled this scudding foam into the deep gray 
of the horizon. 

At sunset the whole force of the tempest was upon 
them. The waves rose and swelled in black, heaving 
grandeur, crowned with great drifts of foam, sweeping 
the ship as if its hull, masts, and the cordage that 
thrilled and quivered like human nerves strained to 
breaking, were but a handful of driftwood, over which 
they leaped with scarcely a break, and dashed themselves 
into a whirlwind of foam among the breakers. 

When the sun set, a wonderful change came upon the 


THE SH PWRECK. 


885 


sky. The great dome, which bent like solid lead above 
the ocean, broke up into tumultuous black clouds, which 
rolled through the troubled atmosphere, and piled them- 
selves along the west in huge mountains, black and gray, 
through which lakes of lurid crimson came out like seas 
of blood, buried deep down among the barren rocks of a 
desert. 

These pools of red light gave a little hope to the 
anxious souls on board that brig. They might be a 
signal that the wind was about to change again, or be 
checked in its violence. 

The captain said this, turning his rugged face in white 
terror from the breakers, whose thunder boomed nearer 
and nearer, to cast a look of terrible anxiety upon the 
west. 

“ If not, the God of heaven only knows what will be- 
come of us,” he muttered in hoarse anguish, addressing 
Osborne, who stood near him at the helm. 

Osborne lifted his forehead to the sky, and his lips moved. 
The expression of that face gave the captain courage. 
With one hand grasping the almost useless helm, he 
seized upon the minister’s garments with the other. 

... “ You have no fear,” he said. “You believe that we 
shall be saved ?” 

“Yes. I believe.” 

As he spoke, the wind, which had lulled for a moment, 
came raving over them again. The waves, fierce, shorter, 
and ravenous as wild animals, seized upon the brig, and 
heaved it shorewards ; leaped over it, wrenched at its 
quaking timbers, hurled it down into black watery chasms, 
spurned it upwards to the ridge of an outheaving wave ; 
tore its masts up, and hurled them overboard, dragging 
the tortured craft down with a new burden ; and then a 


O A 


386 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


great swell of th.e sea sent her quivering like a human 
soul on the verge of the breakers. Another looming rush 
sent her forward with a long sweep, and clinched her 
between the jaws of two rocks, which showed themselves 
awfully through the hissing whiteness of the foam. 

A desperate lurch, a horrible crashing sound, as if the 
brig were a living thing in its death throes, and the great 
waves left it quivering in those rocky jaws, and retreated, 
gathering strength for a new onset. 

The captain had kept faithful to his helm. It was use- 
less, still he could not forsake his post. But now, with 
the timbers grinding to atoms under his feet, and the 
boiling whiteness of the breakers all around him, the 
stout man gave way, and would have fallen on his knees 
in despair ; but Osborne held him up by the great moral 
force which the close presence of death had awakened in 
bis own soul. 

‘‘Arouse yourself,” he said ; “so long as one timber is 
bolted to another, all is not lost. These rocks, that 
seemed our worst enemies, will hold the ship together a 
few minutes longer. Thank God, there are neither women 
nor little ones on board.” 

The crew gathered around him. His sacred character 
was a forlorn hope, to which they clung like children. 
They expected only prayers ; but while his heart rose to 
God, his lips urged the men to action. 

“ Before another wave is upon us, and the planks are 
torn away from under our feet, seize upon such fragments 
of the wreck as may help you in the /water.” 

The men gave a forlorn cheer, and went to work gather 
ing up wet ropes, and securing themselves to broken frag- 
ments of the masts and yards. 

“And you,” said the captain, stretching out his brawny 


THE SHIPWRECK. 387 

arms to Osborne : “ minister, I am strong ; I can swim ; 
hold fast to me. If we sink, I will go first. ” 

“ Yes,” answered Osborne, with a wan smile. “ I am 
needed : my life must not be lost. God will give us both 
strength, my friend. The danger is terrible, but we shall 
not die.” 

The awful blackness of an outheaving w^ave was upon 
them. The captain flung one iron arm around the min- 
ister ; the other he held firmly to the splintered stump of 
his mainmast. 

It came on, a huge column of waters, arching grimly 
black in the red light, which was almost quenched in the 
west. Huge windrows and curtains of spray foamed over 
it like banners from a battlement. It plunged upon them 
with a terrific shock, driving the wreck half-a-ship’s 
length further into the breakers, with its open ribs 
crushed, and the sea boiling through its hold. When the 
wave surged back not a living soul was upon the wreck ; 
but many dark objects were battling for life with the 
breakers. One or two, wounded by the rocks, were 
overwhelmed ; but when the rest were about to sink, 
another watery monster gathered them up like straws 
and hurled them upon the shore. 

Among these was the minister. The sailors, hardy 
and powerful men, knew that not to struggle was to die, 
and dragged themselves beyond the retreating wave. 
With the breath beaten from his body, Osborne seized upon 
a tuft of salt grass with blind instinct, and clung to it 
desperately. The suction of the water dragged at him 
like a pack of wolves, straining his limbs, and half-up 
rooting the grass Another wave would have found him 
helpless, but as it looming upon the beach a pair of 
great strong arms seized upon the minister and dragged 


CHAPTER XL 


COMING INTO PORT. 

The vessel which was to bring the Arnold family to 
Kew Haven had been watched and waited for only as a 
craft freighted with love ever is watched. When she 
first rose on the horizon, like a white sea-gull with its 
wings outspread, Paul de Montreuil stood on the wharf 
with a telescope in his hand, searching the luminous fog 
through and through, as if his own heart had been lost 
there and could only be recovered with great vigilance. 

All at once, while he was looking to the left, the little 
vessel came fluttering out of the silvery distance, and 
hovered between the blue line of water and the soft white 
clouds in the sky, as if it belonged as much to heaven as 
earth. Paul’s heart leaped in his bosom as he saw the 
sails dip and bathe themselves, as it were, in the rosy 
light ; for, though it was not sunset, opal tints rippled the 
water as if reefs of pink coral and ridges of amber lay 
just beneath the surface, and gave their riches to every 
wave. His heart told him what ship it was long and 
long before his telescope discovered the truth ; still that 
heart was in a flutter of doubt up to the last moment. 
Hope had mounted so high in his soul that he dreaded 
disappointment like a coward. 

She came near, catching the sunset on her sails, till he 
could see figures upon the deck, — men and women, all 
looking towards the shore. Then his glass took them 
388 


COMING INTO POET. 


389 


in with certainty : it gave back face after face to his 
search, but not liers. The glass shook in his hand : he 
was about to dash it down, when a female figure came 
clearly out from the group, and stood leaning over the 
bulwarks. It was Hannah. 

Paul grew wild with delight, now ; he snatched up the 
glass and reassured himself. Then he paced up and down 
the dock, still looking seaward, as if he feared the little 
vessel might fly away and disappoint him yet. Again ne 
would sit down upon a pile of lumber that lay there ready 
for shipment, and strive to wait with patience. The sun- 
set was splendid that night, and the vessel came forward 
in a blaze of gorgeous colors. The white sails seemed 
tipped with flame. She ploughed her way through liquid 
topaz and melted rubies. 

Paul loved all that was beautiful and grand in nature. 
This scene made his nerves thrill. It was like visible 
music to him. 

“ So it should be,” was his wild lover-like thought. 
“ My pearl, my gentle one, every thing beautiful should 
wait upon her. The winds that bring her to me should 
come whispering music and laden with perfume. She is 
so good, so true, so modest. Ah, shall I ever be worthy 
of her ? Can she imagine how I love her ?” And she, 
looking out from the deck of that little craft, saw a dark 
spot upon the distant wharf. How her eyes lightened ! 
Her lips parted in sweet expectation. Under the conceal- 
ment of her mantle she clasped two little hands, and a deep 
sigh thrilled up from her surcharged bosom, changingupon 
her lips into smiles. 

“ It is Paul ! it is Paul !” she said in her heart. “ He 
could not wait. He is on the watch. Oh, how he loves 


390 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


me ! How I love him ! I wonder if it is a sin to worship 
any one so much V ’ 

Amy Leonard crept close up to Hannah. She was 
shivering as with cold, though the evening was drawing 
on bland and warm. Her pale, sharpened features pre- 
sented a mournful contrast to the happiness which made 
Hannah so lovely. “We are in sight of the town/’ she 
said, in a voice that seemed to shiver with the heart-chill 
which had seized upon her. 

Hannah was so absorbed by her own happiness that she 
did not hear the low speech or feel the presence of this 
miserable young creature. “ I wonder,” she whispered to 
herself, “ if this sweet feeling can be a sin ? Oh no, no, 
it is something that the angels understand and share 
with us ! They must love one another, or heaven would 
be nothing to them.” 

Amy saw the glow on her friend’s face, and sunk down 
to a seat close by her, mute and cold. No words of expla- 
nation had ever passed between these two school-mates ; 
for in those days girls did not chatter, like magpies, of 
feelings that are always too sacred for light speech, and 
household secrets were seldom given carelessly to the chil- 
dren of a family. Hannah knew that something was terribly 
wrong between her family and that of the cabin on the 
Yantic ; but having no person to consult with, and being 
naturally discreet in asking questions, she had no real idea 
of the trouble that threatened them, nor dreamed that it 
would interfere with the blissful destiny that lay before 
her. So, with hope brightening her serene face, she gazed 
landward, knowing chat he was there waiting. 

While Hannah looked afar off in her innocent joy, Amy 
sat drooping by her side unnoticed and desolate. Every 
gust of wind that urged her towards the shore, wrung un- 


COMING INTO PORT. 


391 


uttered moans from her soul. Each wave that lifted the 
vessel forward was answered by a pulse of agony from 
her bosom. What had she to expect in that beautiful spot 
to which the winds were drifting her ? How would he 
meet her ? Was it possible for her to act in antagonism 
to his wishes ? Oh, if she might but die then and there ! 
Had her sin of disobedience been so terrible that this great 
misery must spring out of it ? The same bland air that 
made Hannah smile so joyously chilled poor Amy through 
and through. Her limbs shook and her very teeth chat- 
tered. The great shawl which she had worn during the 
whole passage seemed insufficient to give her warmth, 
muffle it around her as she would. She had been watch- 
ing Hannah’s face, and following those eager eyes, with a 
wild, frightened look. She saw the figure of a man wait- 
ing on the wharf. Was it he, her most bitter enemy, yet 
the dearest being upon earth ? Was it he ? The doubt 
wrung a broken moan from her lips. Hannah heard the 
sound, and turning suddenly saw the gentle sufferer crouch- 
ing at her feet. The gray, anguish in that young face 
frightened all the happiness out of hers. 

“ Hear Amy, I am glad you have come on deck at last. 
How ill you must have been, poor child ! The sickness 
has left you so pale, so deathly, I should hardly know 
you.” 

11 Yes,” answered Amy, wearily, “ I am changed, — oh, 
how changed ! By and by, Hannah, you, perhaps, will 
not want to know me.’ 

“ There, now,” answered Hannah, “ isn’t this a strange 
thing to say. What on earth can ever make me love you 
less? I am ashamed of you, Amy Leonard.” 

Amy lifted her yearning gaze to the face bending over 
her so full of sweet gravity. There was something in 


392 


THE REJECTED WIFE 


her look that drove all the joy from Hannah’s thoughts. 
She sat down, and passed her arm caressingly over the 
poor girl’s shoulder. 

“ What makes you so pale, dear ? I cannot bear to see 
you unhappy now, of all times in the world. Tell me all 
about it.” 

Amy shrunk away from her arm, shuddering. 

“ How strangely you act, Amy. What have I done ?” 

“You, you. Nothing.” 

“ Then why creep away from me, as if I were some- 
thing hateful to you ?” 

“ I did not — oh, I did not. Hannah ! Hannah ! if you 
only — only ■” 

She broke off, and covering her face with both hands, 
sat motionless, evidently striving to gather strength. 
Then she arose with a pitiful smile and said, 

“ Don't mind me, Hannah. It’s a shame to dash your 
happiness with my low spirits. I will go down.” 

“Not yet,” said Hannah, detaining her with gentle 
force. “ Tell me, dear, why you are so sad. Is it — is it 
because of this wedding ? Don’t look so wild, dear. You 
have been so down-hearted ever since we heard of it, that 
I cannot help thinking so.” 

“ Let me go down ! Let me go down !” 

The words broke from lips pale as snow. The poor 
creature did, indeed, look wild and white. 

Hannah dropped her hand from the shawl by which 
she had been detaining her. 

“ Oh, Amy, I did not mean to hurt you !” 

Amy came back with a quiver on her lips, and in 
shrinking penitence held them up to be kissed. 

“ Amy, at any rate, I love you like a sister.” 


COMING INTO PORT. 393 

Tears sprang into Amy’s eyes. “I know it — I know 
it,” she said. “You have ^,11 been good to me.” 

“ And we always shall be.” 

Amy went down to the little cabin, and there, wringing 
her hands in bitter sorrow, wailed out : 

“ Oh, if I could but suffer alone ! If I could but submit 
without sin ! God help me, God help me, what misery I 
may bring upon her too !” 

Meantime the vessel went careering on its way, the 
wind kissing its sails and the waves breaking in showers 
of foam from its prow. The sunset was deepening into 
golden purple, and close by lay the city bathed in its 
dusky light. Down the little craft swooped toward the 
wharf, folded her wings, and lay still upon the water, ready 
to be dragged into mooring, as a bird gives itself up to 
the snarer. 

Before she touched the wharf Paul leaped on board, 
clearing a broad space of water with one bound. 

“ Come,” he said, gathering Hannah’s little hand undei 
his arm, “let us walk to the hotel. Your mother and the 
rest can ride.” 

Hannah could not refuse ; her whole heart went with 
the request. She did not even attempt to withdraw her 
hand from the clasp which still held it, but, with a light 
leap sprang with him on shore. 

“Are you glad, are you happy, as I am, darling ? Do 
you love me yet, dear, dear girl ?” 

“ Do I love you ? The strange question. Do I love 
myself?” 

“ God bless you, darling ! Come, let us go. See what 
a splendid evening it is. For one half hour I will have 
you all to myself.” 


894 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


They walked up the wharf and were gone. One half 
hour of happiness, at least wag theirs. 

The Maria Jane from Norwich was pulled close up to 
the long wharf, and its passengers made their way to the 
hotel, which was scarcely more than a nominal home to 
the young Arnold. A sad and dejected party it was 
which presented itself before the good landlady. They 
looked more — as she afterward expressed herself — like 
people going to a funeral than a wedding, with such 
faces ! all the lights she could put in her best room failed 
to render it cheerful. Then the young man was away, as 
usual, and she felt herself quite put about to entertain 
them. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE BRIDAL TOILET. 

Arnold was with Laura that evening, and a more per- 
fect contrast between the dim room where the Arnold 
family sat, and the exquisite boudoir in which the young 
man was lounging away the last few hours that was 
to intervene before his marriage, could not well be im- 
agined. 

Laura stood before him in her wedding-garments. The 
crimson curtains, sweeping over the windows, served that 
lovely picture as a background, — the lights of a gilded 
candelabrum fell athwart her robe of thick, white silk, 
and made the silver bouquets with which it was brocaded 
giilM with frost-like brightness. Diamond drops fell 


THE BRIDAL TOILET. 


395 


like dew among the white roses that crowned the sweep 
of her beautiful hair, and lighted up her stomacher in 
clusters of rainbow flame. The sleeves, which fitted close 
down to her elbow, terminated in a mist of lace, like 
that which left a scarcely perceptible shadow on her 
bosom. 

From the rustling folds of her robe her little feet peeped 
out, clad in dainty satin shoes, balanced on heels that 
seemed cut from coral, with rubies lying like frozen 
flame in the heart of each white rosette. 

With his usual haste for gratification, the bridegroom 
had urged her to don this dress, that he might know how 
beautiful she would be when the wedding evening came. 
Why should he wait till then and share her presence with 
so many others ? 

He had been praising her : you could have told it by 
the peachy bloom on her cheeks, the shy gladness that 
broke through those curling lashes. Yes, she was beauti- 
ful, and he had told her so. The fever of half-sated 
admiration glowed in his eyes ; the triumph of his 
“ ruling passion” was so vivid that she could not help 
thinking it love. 

“Now,” she said, blushing and shrinking like an over- 
dressed child; “may I go and put these things away 
before the gloss is brushed off ? or have you some defect 
to point out ?” 

“Defect 1” exclaimed Arnold with ardor. “ Who shall 
presume to question any thing you wear or say ? Not I ! 
To the depths of my heart I feel how beautiful you are 
Not the natives here ! When have they seen any thing 
approaching this ? Such magnificence will astonish 
them !” 

" I hope so, if that pleases you,” she said, blushing 


396 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


happily, as she swept past him and tried to make her 
escape. 

He caught her hand and kissed it ardently. She laughed 
and struggled till the dimples came to her cheeks ; then, 
with a half-tender, lialf-coquettish protest, obeyed his 
gesture, and sunk to an ottoman which stood by his chair. 
Thus, with those rich garments settling around her like 
crusted snow, she formed another picture, at which he 
gazed in greedy triumph. 

There is seldom perfect equality in marriage, because 
from depth of affection or circumstance the balance of 
love usually preponderates on one side, thus rendering one 
party the monarch, and the other a subject. That man or 
woman is generous, indeed, if he or she never presume 
upon the power which is obtained through excess of love 
in another. Arnold was not of this class. He delighted 
in testing the extent of his authority over that queenly 
nature, and kept her at his feet, as we trifle with a child. 

“ So you like the dress ?” she said, looking down upon 
it. “ But I was very foolish to indulge you. It will seem 
old and familiar on our wedding-day. ” 

“ Perhaps so,” he said carelessly : “ but I am always 
brushing the down from my fruit. Never mind, it is 
pretty enough for a second examination, and one never 
tires of these things : there is power as well as show in 
them.” 

He touched the cluster of jewels on her bosom with a 
gleam in his eyes that made her shrink. Did he, indeed, 
care for those things so much, not because they were hers, 
but from the value that they represented ? 

She felt this question in her heart without putting it 
clearly before her intellect, but, for the moment, it made her 
thoughtful. He saw it, and touched her cheek. 


THE BRIDAL TOILET. 397 

“ Do you love me ?” lie said, in a voice that was in its 
very tones a caress. 

She blushed, like a flower when the sun rises, but only 
answered with a brilliant flash of the eyes and a smile that 
fell upon him like a glow of light. 

He leaned back in his chair, toying with the rings upon 
her fingers, and smiling in the fullness of his content. 

That instant a heavy knock sounded from the front 
door, and directly after a servant passed in from the hall, 
announcing an old gentleman who was in search of Mr. 
Arnold. 

Laura started up, blushing crimson beneath the ad- 
miring eyes of her servant, Which were fixed on her 
singular costume. She stood a moment irresolute, then 
fled through a side door, while Arnold followed her with 
an earnest glance. He saw the white folds of her dress 
fluttering through the darkness beyond, and, half-tempted 
to follow her, moved a step toward the door. 

“ Go, go,” cried a laughing voice. “ It will take me a 
good hour to get into a civilized dress again. But come 
in the morning early perhaps they will have arrived ; but 
any way don’t fail to come. Au re voir J” 

She glided back a few steps, kissed her hand, and darted 
off, calling out, “Au re voir ! au revoir /” 

Arnold turned away, and followed the servant, who 
stood outside the door. 

An old man was in the hall waiting. 

“Ah, is it you, sir ?” said Arnold, holding out his hand 
with some constraint. “ I did not expect you quite so 
soon.” 

The old man took the hand reached out to him ; but 
Arnold noticed that the hard fingers which closed on his 
were cold as ice. 


3y8 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ They have all come, I suppose,’’ said Arnold, dropping 
the hand, as he turned to search for his hat. “ I will go 
with you at once. You must have had a good wind ?” 

“ Yes ; I think so ; but didn’t notice about it,” answered 
the father, absently ; and they went out together, falling 
into dead silence as they threaded the dark streets, — not 
arm in arm, but walking a little apart, as if some invisible 
bar kept them from that close proximity which persons 
who love each other without stint are sure to seek. 

While the elder Arnold had been standing in the hall 
of de Montreuil’s dwelling, a female figure, which had 
followed him all the way from the hotel, lingered in the 
shadows that lay heavily on the street, waiting for him 
to come forth. She had not watched long when the two 
men whom she most wished yet dreaded to see appeared 
in the open door, revealed clearly by a tall light which the 
servant held in the background. 

She saw that the old man’s face was pale and strangely 
stern, while a black frown lowered on the forehead of his 
son. She shrank against the palings of a vast garden, 
whose fragrance swept across her like a mockery, as the 
two men passed so near that an outstretched hand might 
have touched them. Her heart beat so thick and fast 
that she grew faint in the atmosphere of his presence ; but 
when he was gone, and she heard only the sound of his 
retreating footsteps, she staggered forward with a moan 
upon her lips, as if to follow. 

The servant stood in the doorway, holding up his 
candle that the two guests might find their way more 
surely into the street. He was retreating, and about to 
close the door, when Amy came rapidly up the steps and 
asked for the lady. 

It was still early in the evening, and the man naturally 


THE BRIDAL TOILET. 


899 


mistook her for one of the sewing-women who had been 
constantly going in and out of the house, almost at will, 
for the last ten days. So, merely observing that mademoi- 
selle was in her own apartment no doubt, he turned into 
a side-room, and left her alone in the hall. 

A broad, oaken staircase, with carved balustrades, as- 
cended from the hall. At the first landing stood a bronze 
statue, holding a torch with one hand, while it pointed 
upward with the other. To her excited imagination this 
image seemed directing her to her destination ; so she 
mounted the stairs, and glided away into the chambers 
above. 

There was no light in the upper hall save that which 
came from the landing below, but that proved enough to 
reveal something of the chamber which she entered 
through a door which stood ajar. It was a spacious 
apartment, with a vast white bed standing in the centre, 
like a snow-heap, for floods of drapery brooded over and 
fell around it, looking grandly spectral in the dim gleams 
that shot up from the statue. The wind, as it stole through 
the window, brought with it a rustle of the silken curtains, 
and some delicate perfume penetrated the atmosphere, as 
if flowers were breathing somewhere in the darkness 
Beyond the bed, an arrow of light shot half across the 
room from a door that stood on the latch. 

Amy crossed the carpet without a sound, for it was 
thick and heavy as velvet moss. A moment’s hesitation, 
a quick breath, and she knocked at the door. 

There was a sweeping rustle of silks within — a slight 
jingle, as if some ornament had been hastily flung down, 
and then a clear voice called out : 

t% Come in !” 

Amy opened the door and stood on the threshold, 


400 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


struck dumb by the scene which presented itself. Before 
a dressing-table, draped with white lace, and surmounted 
by a mirror so broad and bright that it flung back a dozen 
beautiful objects, stood Laura de Montreuil, in full bridal 
dress, as if she had just come from the altar. Like a 
white swan, that admires its own graceful image in a 
lake, she surveyed herself with a sort of pleasant wonder 
that any thing could be so beautiful. Her round arms 
■were uplifted, and she was bending her head slightly 
sideways, trying to undo the wreath of white roses that 
crowned it. 

“ Why don’t you come and help me ?” she cried, drop- 
ping her hands wearily. 

Amy stepped forward and took the crown from her 
head, absolutely unconscious of the action. 

Laura’s face was bent downward, and she had no idea 
that it was any one but her maid who offered the service 
till she resumed her position and saw Amy Leonard 
standing before her with the bridal crown in her hands. 
A pang of astonishment seized upon her; she reached 
forth her hand, took the roses, and laid them slowly on 
the table, keeping her fascinated eyes on that pale face. 

“Amy Leonard !” 

“Yes, lady, it is I,” said Amy, in so sad a voice that 
Laura’s heart fell to the sound. 

They stood in silence, looking at each other until both 
grew white with intuitive dread. 

“You wish to talk with me, — you have something 
to say,” faltered Laura at last, trembling in all her 
limbs. 

“ Yes,” answered Amy. “ I came on purpose, and 
found my way here. How, I can hardly tell, for it seems 
to me as if I were walking in a dream.” 


THE BRIDAL TOILET. 


401 


“ Well/’ said Laura, faintly, “ we are together : you 
have a right to say any thing to me, no matter how cruel 
the thing is. You saved my life, Amy Leonard, and it 
belongs to you. What you want may be death, you 
know, but speak : I am only a coward in one thing.’ 

“And I in every thing,” said Amy. 

“No, no, Amy Leonard, you are an angel ! I only 
wish I were one bit like you. Coward ! Great heavens ! 
and those logs rolling and dipping you down, down, into 
the black waters. Still you held on. I feel your grip 
in my hair now. I hear the waters gurgle, and see the 
black streams pouring over that poor face May God for- 
sake me if I ever forget that fearful time, Amy.” 

“ That was nothing. We must not think of it, for it 
looks like a claim. I couldn't help doing what I did. you 
know, and didn’t consider what I was about. There was 
no merit, not a bit. If I hung on tight tou you, or the 
log, it was just the cowardice that was in rue. So forget 
that. You must. I can’t have it remembered in any 
way. ” 

Laura shook her head, smiling sadly enough. 

“I cannot forget any thing, Amy, and should hate my- 
self if that one hour of our two lives could ever leave 
my heart.” 

Amy heard this impatiently, and put out her hands, as 
if to force back the gratitude that oppressed her. 

“ Stop !” she said, with a wild glitter of the eye. “ That 
dress — that room — the roses with which I have decrowned 
you — what do they mean ? Are you already married to 
my — to Benedict Arnold ?” 

Laura blushed like a crimson sunset, and gathering both 
hands over the jewels on her bosom, strove to hide them 
in the shame of her detected vanity. 


402 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“Are you married ?” said Amy, with cold stillness. 

“No. It was a piece of folly. He wanted to see how 
it would look, so I put the dress on ; for oh, Amy, I can 
deny him no one thing that he asks. Don’t think worse 
of me than I deserve. Indeed I don’t care myself. It 
isn’t vanity or pride, only he wished it.” 

Amy saw nothing of the dusky blush — heard nothing 
of this breathless excuse, except the first words : She was 
not married . 

There was no brightening of the face, only a look of 
infinite relief, as if the tension of some painful doubt had 
broken away. 

Amy cast down her eyes and trembled. ITow was she 
to begin ? What could she say, being just to the truth 
and yet keeping faith with him ? 

Laura looked at her visitor with anxiety, not unmingled 
with impat ie nce ; but Amy dropped her head upon her 
bosom, till the features were almost hidden ; and then a 
strange terror came upon Laura, her eyes shone brilliantly, 
her lips parted and grew white. She recoiled to the 
dressing-table, and pressed one hand hard upon it foi 
support. 

Amy looked up, and the white faces of those two mis* 
erable young creatures read each other. Laura spoke 
first, but her voice, usually mellow and joyous, was si 
hoarse that a look of terror broke into Amy’s face, and 
she advanced a step, prompted to offer help 

Laura pushed her back with both hands, desperately, 
loathingly. Where was her gratitude then ? What did 
she care for the life which would henceforth pray upon her 
soul like poison ? Why was it given back to her ? She 
fell upon her knees by the table, its filmy drapery trembled 
beneath the shiver of her frame. The jewels she had 


THE BRIDAL TOILET. 


403 


just taken off flung a rainbow of mocking light athwart 
her forehead. She crushed the white roses under the 
weight of her arm, and thus the glittering mirror re- 
flected her. 

A long, dead silence followed, and then Laura lifted her 
face. It was white, and locked. 

“ Is this thing true ?” 

Amy bent her head. She could not speak. 

Laura struggled slowly to her feet. She did not look 
like the same being who had stood at the mirror only a 
few minutes before. 

“ Tell me all,” she said shivering. 

“Ask him !” 

“Him! Ask him! The traitor! The double-dyed 
traitor !” she cried, clenching her hand, while the hot life 
flamed back to her marble cheeks. “And you — you . 
Shameless !” 

“Ho, not that,” said Amy, in a low voice. “I have 
done wrong, but not to him or you.” 

“ Hot to me ! his betrothed ! his bride ! his wife ! Hot 
to me !” 

“Ho, lady, not to you. He loved me — or, God help 
me ! I thought so — long before your face ever darkened 
our lives.” 

“ He loved you !” 

“ Yes, he loved me ” 

“ And I— I ” 

The unhappy young creature seemed sinking in the 
whirlwind of her own passion. 

“Be appeased,” said Amy, sadly. “He does not love 
me now, or why should you wear those garments ?” 

“ He does not love you now — no, no. How could ne ?” 

She wrung her hands ; she clasped them fiercely above 


404 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

her head, and walked the room to and fro like a panther 
bounding to its jungle. All at once she stopped before 
Amy, who was following her with affrighted eyes. / She 
gazed at her till the fiery rage in her glance burned down. 

“You saved my life — you saved my life— you, Amy 
Leonard. Oh ! if you could take it now. If I could 
tear it out and fling it at your feet !” 

“ It was not my fault,” pleaded Amy. “ I couldn’t 
help it any more than I could help him loving you.” 

“ Loving me ! Do you believe that ?” 

“Yes, I believe it.” 

“ You believed this and did not die ?” 

“ Oh, me ! who could help it ? Neither death nor love 
will come for the asking, or I should not be here to tor- 
ture you.” 

“ But you are soft and gentle — such people can change. 
See here, Amy, I am rich, very rich ! Oh ! heavens ! 
what is this ? Am I so mean ? — so lost ?” 

Again that noble girl bent to the whirlwind of her great 
sorrow. Surely the outrage that man had put upon her 
justified even that tempest of scorn and anguish. At last 
she was quieter, a mournful calmness came on, through 
which her grand nature began to reveal itself. She went 
into the next room and fell upon her knees before the 
white bed, wrestling with herself like one who would soon 
learn to “suffer and grow strong.” 

Amy knelt down also. Poor girl ! that moment she 
would have given him up, could the sacrifice have been 
made without sin.- Nay, so gentle and so true was her 
pure heart that she would — for such things may be and 
sometimes are among women — she would have gone 
away with her innocent shame to suffer life alone, so great 


UNDER THE ELMS. 405 

was her gentle compassion for the unhappy girl in the 
next room. 

While she was still on her knees Laura came in. A 
large cloak was flung over the whiteness of her robe, and 
the hood lined with crimson silk made the pallor of her 
face more impressive. She touched Amy on the shoulder. 

“ Come !” 

“ Where?” 

“ To the hotel where he has gone.” 

Amy stood up, wondering at the calmness that had 
fallen upon that noble face. 

Without another word of explanation they went out 
together. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

UNDER THE ELMS. 

Mrs. Arnold was in her chamber waiting with a heavy 
heart for the return of her husband, and for the first 
sight of her son. 

But the two men did not return so promptly as she 
expected. Under one of the noble elms which shaded the 
college grounds they had paused in deep conversation. 
Both were agitated, and the voice of the old man was 
stern and deep, almost as if it had been uttering a male- 
diction. 

“Benedict,” he was saying, “before this girl shall be 
left to her ruin, I will tell that which shall destroy you.” 

“What, the thing you hinted at when I was home ! as 
if I gave it a thought.” 


406 THE KEJECTED WIPE. 

“ Yes, Benedict, it is of your crime I speak.” 

11 1 Crime/ sir !” 

“ The first great crime which brought distraction upon 
me, — hardness of heart on you.” 

“ Speak out, sir, you exasperate me with half-sayings. 
Of what crime am I guilty ?” 

“It is hard to speak of it. I have never uttered the 
awful words before, but you will have them. I speak of 
ARSON AND FRAUD.” 

The old man spoke so sternly, and the words came out 
so like a denunciation, that Benedict staggered back and 
hid his face in the shadows. Conscience, after all, made 
a coward of him. His voice shook when he spoke. 

“You charge these things on jne. This suspicion, sir, 
is enough to separate father and son forever.” 

“ ‘ Suspicion V Benedict, I saw the act.” 

“ You ! — you !” 

“As God shall judge us, my son, I saw you.” 

“ Ha !” 

“ It was a stormy night. Ho you remember it ? Can 
you ever forget it ? A wild, stormy night — not with 
rain or snow, but the wind blew awfully and the light- 
ning flashed in and out through the clouds, — dry lightning, 
such as makes the air hot around you ? I went home. 
Do you remember leaving the shutters open ? You were 
to bar them and sleep in the store. It was a common 
thing, and when you asked it I had nothing to opposp> 
People say that when great evils threaten you, some pre- 
sentiment warns you against them. It was not so with 
me. I went out very happy. We had done a good day’s 
business, and I was going home to a contented wife and 
pleasant fireside. It was not a presentiment that brought 
me back.” 


UlSTDER THE ELMS. 407 

“ It must have- been some infernal fiend,” hissed the 
young man through his clinched teeth. 

“ It did the work of a fiend for me and mine,” was the re- 
joinder. “ The wind rose, and swelled, and rioted that night 
as I have never seen it before nor since. There was a long 
stretch of woods between the town and our homestead. The 
gale tore through the trees like a tornado. I could hear the 
great limbs crack and go crashing through the branches 
underneath, tearing them away to work new havoc. Just 
as I entered this wood, a great hemlock, hollow at the trunk, 
was lifted up by the roots and hurled across the road not 
twenty feet from where I stood. The crash frightened me. 
Any one of the great limbs, that were twisted off like 
straws, would have killed me in falling. I turned when 
the hemlock fell and ran out of the woods. It was surely 
unsafe to go home, so I made up my mind to hurry back 
and sleep with my son in the store.” 

“An infernal piece of folly,” muttered the son. 

“I reached the store and was going in, but one leaf of 
the shutters was open, and, thinking the wind had torn 
out the bolt, I stopped to fasten it — and looked in.” 

“ Well, sir, and you saw what ?” 

“I saw my own son standing over a mass of burning 
shavings, on which he was heaping pine-knots and pouring 
oil. The smoke already filled the store ; flames leaped 
from the burning mass,, and licked the ceiling. I strove to 
call out, but the sight struck me dumb. The words strug- 
gled in my throat like a death-rattle. I beat against the 
shutters with my hands. I tried the door. It was bolted 
inside. Then I shouted ; agony unchained my voice as 
terror had chained it : but the wind swept the cries from 
my lips. Nothing could be heard that night above its 
fierce howls. Then the door was burst open and great 


408 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

waves of flame broke through. With them came a human 
form. Yours, yours, Benedict Arnold. I saw it clearly by 
the vivid light of the fire. I saw it leaping through the 
darkness and away into the woods I had not dared to pass. 
Ten thousand devils seemed howling a welcome to their 
fellow-sinner as you entered the shadows. I ran after you. 
I shouted furiously that you should turn back and help me 
put out the fire ; but it was useless. You had plunged 
into the black chasms of the wood, and were gone. Then 
I went back to the store, panting for breath, bathed in 
sweat, faint and sick. The fire had broken out from every 
crevice ; flames were leaping through the windows ; and, 
curling upwards from the door, they lapped the shingled 
roof madly, as wolves drink blood. I was too late, too 
late. ” 

The old man took out his handkerchief and dashed it 
across his forehead, wiping great drops of agony away. 
The moonbeams fell on his head, and against the crimson 
folds of his handkerchief those rugged features were ghastly 
white. 

Arnold was the first to speak. While this terrible nar- 
rative was poured forth, more like a last appeal than an 
accusation, his iron heart had resumed its hardness. The 
first shock of a conscience not quite dead had left him 
dumb. But when the old man stopped, trembling and 
exhausted, his audacious spirit came back. 

“ Old man, were you crazy then, or are you crazy 
now ? n 

“Almost, almost, I fear !” panted the unhappy parent. 

“ I should think so ; to hunt an only son down with 
charges like this — why they are worthy of a romance.” 

“ How true they are, you and the God who shall here- 
after judge us both know well,?’ was the solemn reply, 


UNDER THE ELM. 


409 


I should think,” answered the son, still keeping in the 
shadow, however, for he could not face the old man even 
then, “ I should think this wild scene sprang from a wish 
to frighten me into jour measures, but that mj own 
father cannot believe me quite a coward.” 

11 A coward ! No. It is I that have been the coward.” 

“ In not having courage enough to denounce me, 
perhaps. A tender father to regret that !” 

“ I knew that the penalty was death.” 

“ And is still, father.” 

The old man groaned. Arnold took courage. 

“ You saw this and did not inform. It is too late now : 
the insurance has been paid and spent long ago. I 
thought mj own father knew me better than to suppose 
I would be frightened into any thing, especially with 
threats about a dead matter like this. You allowed the 
insurance to be paid without speaking.” 

“ True, true. I was a coward, and had no strength from 
that hour till the good God saw fit to call me back to his 
fold. I tried to drown it all out of my brain. But since 
then I have become a man, an honest man, for that debt 
of sin has been paid, every farthing.” 

“ Paid ! What, the insurance ?” 

“ Yes, Benedict, your sin has made me a poor man, but, 
thank God, I am free of that sin.” 

“ You have played the fool to this extent, and how ?” 

“I have mortgaged the farm. Your mother and I 
are working and saving every way to keep the old roof 
over our heads ; but your debt is paid so far as man is 
concerned.” 

“ So you have given away the home from over my 
mother’s head, and now follow me with reproaches ! It is 


410 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


doubtless the part of a good Christian to first disinherit 
and then pursue an only son with threats of ruin.” 

“ I do no such thing, Benedict. So far as the power 
lay in me I have atoned for your crime.” 

“ ' Crime/ again I” 

“ 1 Crime/ I said ; but another I will never see go un- 
punished. This girl, the daughter of my old friend — 
while it is time, she must be saved.” 

4 'But I am pledged, openly pledged to marry another. 
You know that, yet come to me with this sort of preach- 
ing, as if faithlessness to one woman were not the same 
as desertion of another. I cannot marry both, that you 
must allow.” 

“ I will not argue this matter,” said the elder Arnold, 
"but my pledge is given to Joshua Leonard. It shall be 
fulfilled.” 

“ Not by me, sir. I am not to be coerced. If the girl 
has pursued me here, take her back again before she 
attempts mischief, or it’ll prove the worse for her. Tell 
her this.” 

"No, I will not.” 

“ Then I will, and in words that shall make themselves 
felt in every nerve of her body. How dare she pursue 
me in this way !” 

Arnold came out from the shadow of the elm, as he 
ceased speaking, and walked angrily across the green. The 
starlight shon3 on his face, and it was that of a demon. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE. 

Arnold entered tlie hotel with an imperious step, and a 
storm in his eyes. With these feelings he had no wish to 
meet his mother, and received Hannah’s affectionate greet- 
ing almost with a rebuff. He was annoyed at Paul’s 
presence, and, drawing Hannah aside, whispered in rude 
haste, 

“ Where is she ? Where is Amy Leonard ? I must see 
her alone.” 

“ I don’t know, Ben, — she went out I fancy. But what 
is the matter, — you look so strange, and father too ? Dear 
father, you are pale.” 

Before the old man could answer, there was a quick 
sound of feet in the passage, and Laura de Montreuil en- 
tered, leading Amy by the hand. When the proud girl 
saw her brother, she stopped short and drew a sharp breath, 
but directly her eyes fell upon Benedict with a clear, stern 
light that pierced through his audacious assurance. 

“ Sir,” she said, with grand self-possession, “ look upon 
this fair creature, and then, if you can, refuse the redress 
I have come to demand.” 

Arnold cast a withering glance at Amy, but she bore it 
meekly. He went up to her, seized the hand which Laura 
held, and drew her aside. “ Is this the way you keep an 
oath, traitoress ?” he hissed through his clenched teeth. 

411 


412 THE REJECTED WIFE. 

Amy drew back, briefly saying, “It is kept. Arnold, I 
have told nothing. ” 

He gained a little courage at this, and, approaching 
Laura, would have taken her hand, but she stepped back, 
rebuking him like a queen. 

“Let me speak with you one moment alone,” he 
pleaded. 

“ When this lady is your wife, — never till then.” 

“ Laura, do you, can you cast me off, because a jealous 
girl pursues me with accusations that are false ?” 

“ She false ! Look at her, — is that a face to doubt ?” 

“ You never loved me, Laura, or this person would have 
no power to change you so.” 

She silenced him with an imperious gesture. 

“ Remember,” he said, drawing so close that his breath 
swept her cheek, A the ceremony of to-morrow night. 
Nothing can prevent it. Why expose your delicacy by 
this public scene ?” 

His breath made Laura faint, she turned away dizzy and 
pale. 

“ Go home and let me settle this,” he urged, triumphing 
in her emotion. “ Paul, Paul de Montreuil, take your sis- 
ter home ; she is excited ; I have been cruelly maligned to 
her. Dear Laura, I intreat you,' go home. In the morn- 
ing I will explain.” 

Laura called back her strength, the noble pride flashed 
into her cheeks again. She turned to her brother, who 
came up greatly agitated. The scene had taken him com- 
pletely by surprise. 

“Paul, Paul, let us go away. This man — oh I Paul — 
this man ” 

She could not finish the sentence. All the anguish and 
pride of her nature rose up and overpowered her words 


THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE. 413 

“ What is this ? Give me some explanation,” said Paul, 
with dignity. “ Is it that you have refused to many this 
gentleman ?” 

“ Yes, brother, I refuse.” 

“Beware, Laura, or I may take you at your word,” whis- 
pered Arnold. 

She regarded him for a moment with lofty pride, then 
turned to her brother. 

“ Yes, Paul, I do most solemnly refuse to marry this 
bad man.” 

“And you mean this ?” whispered Arnold. 

She did not answer him, but looked at her brother. 

“ There will be a marriage to-morrow night, and at 
your house, Paul ; but the bride is changed. See, I have 
dragged my wedding-dress through the streets in dust 
and dew. Hers shall be pure and white as snow. She 
gave me life, I give her — oh! Paul, Paul, take me home.” 

She moved toward the door and attempted to lift the 
latch. Arnold started forward and seized her hand. 

“ One word more. Do you, Laura de Montreuil, break 
our engagement here and forever ?” 

“ Now and forever !” she answered, solemnly. 

“And you wish me to marry this girl, Amy Leonard, at 
your brother’s house to-morrow night ?” 

“ I do !” 

She was pale as marble, and her voice seemed passing 
over ice. 

“ Laura, reflect — take a little time. I have struggled 
and dared a great deal for you. Be brave — be yourself — 
and defy those who would separate us. I tell you this 
girl can bring forward no proofs of a claim against me !” 

Laura stood looking at him wildly. His voice, pas- 


414 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


sionately tender, had stirred her heart into revolt against 
its own generosity. 

“ Wait till to-morrow, dearest 1” 

He bent toward her and said this in a whisper which 
no one heard but herself. She did not answer him, but 
a look of yearning regret swept her face while her hand 
unconsciously answered his pressure with a faint clasp. 
His heart gave a triumphant bound, and anxious that she 
should go before any new appeal could be made to her 
gratitude, he- opened the door that she might pass 
through. 

Laura was about to advance into the passage, but 
started aside, for, close by the door, as if about to enter it, 
stood a person whose presence drove her back. It was a 
clergyman, whom she had often seen in his pulpit, and 
once or twice in the street, but so pale, so travel-worn, 
and disturbed in his appearance, that she recognized him 
with dismay. This man saw her bridal robes, and stag- 
gered back against the wall of the passage ghastly white. 
Arnold saw her recoil from the threshold *nd stepped 
forward again, looking past her into the dim passage, to 
learn the cause of her retreat. Osborne had recovered 
himself and stood before him, pale as ever, but stern with 
a solemn resolve. 

For that one moment in his life Arnold lost al 1 self-pos- 
session ; but it was only for a moment. Quick as light- 
ning his intellect resumed its vigor. He saw the peril of 
that man’s presence, the certainty of defeat. All his plans 
had been laid on the assurance that this one man, tJ'e sole 
witness of his marriage, and the only person who *ould 
establish it as a fact, was safe on the ocean. The -eril 
once seen, his decision was made. He retreated intt he 


THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE. 415 

centre of the room and called out, “ Lady, come back one 
moment, I have yet another word to say.” 

Laura turned upon him, wild with new apprehension 
There was not room to pass her in the doorway ; but Os- 
borne was visible close behind her in the passage. 

Arnold turneddiis bold eyes steadily upon this man, and 
even made a gesture that he should keep silent. “As for the 
wedding,” he said, throwing his arm around Amy, “ I can- 
not, with propriety, indulge you, as Amy Leonard and I 
have been married considerably over a year : look up, lit- 
tle wife, and tell this good company if I speak the truth.” 

Amy did not answer. Her cold lips would have refused 
utterance had she attempted it. 

“I am married to this pretty little soul, and conse- 
quently must decline acting at any other ceremony. My 
good father has been greatly exercised about my matrimo- 
nial plans of late. I hope he is satisfied now.” 

The elder Arnold looked sorrowfully on his son. 

“ You seem to doubt me. The tidings have struck you 
all dumb,” continued the young man, looking around with 
a fierce, mocking laugh. 1 “ My proof is close at hand. It 
was the Rev. Jared Osborne who married us ; and, provi- 
dentially, he is in the house, eager, I dare say, to bear tes- 
timony to the fact.” 

Laura had staggered away from the door. Osborne stood 
in the opening. A beautiful smile lighted up his face, 
which had been haggard as death the moment before. He 
had proceeded directly to the hotel in his storm-beaten and 
travel-stained garments, resolved at all hazards to arrest 
the crime he dreaded. When he saw a woman come forth 
from Arnold’s room in dazzling white, all strength forsook 
him and he felt ready to die. Arnold brought him to life 
again Without his interposition the marriage was pro- 


416 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


claimed. The good man comprehended nothing of what 
had gone before. He only knew that a terrible weight had 
been lifted from his soul and his pale face glowed with the 
new joy. 

“ Yes/’ he said, in a sweet, grateful voice, advancing 
towards the strangely united couple, “ it was I who called 
down God’s benediction on this young couple. Inasmuch 
as I did wrong in uniting them in secret, I ask forgiveness 
of God and of all who may have suffered by it.” 

His words were received in dead silence ; not a breath 
seemed drawn. Arnold alone gave evidence of real 
vitality. The rest were like statues. Arnold turned to 
his father : “ How, sir, let us end this scene forever. 
This young person is my legally married wife. I ac- 
knowledge her as such before the whole world, — the more 
willingly because I know it will torture this haughty lady. 
Tell your deacons and our good neighbors in Norwich 
that they must carry their church discipline somewhere 
else. My wife is no subject for it. As for the old folks 
at the saw-mill, let them know that in forcing a wife upon 
me before I was ready to claim her, they have lost a 
daughter.” 

The father thus addressed turned sorrowfully away. 

Then Paul de Montreuil started from the window 
against which he had leaned, and stood up stern and tall 
before the man who had offered this outrage to his sister, — - 
his proud, beautiful sister, whose faculties were all locked 
up in mute astonishment. The i ;.sult hurled upon her 
was so stupendous that his pride refused to understand it. 

“ To-morrow,” he whispered, with deadly scorn in his 
voice, “ to-morrow I shall demand an explanation.” 

“ It is here,” answered Arnold, laughing hoarsely. 

• And a fair one vou must admit. Why, nmn, it is of no 


THE BE IDE AND THE WIFE. 417 

use to look daggers. A fellow with one pretty wife can- 
not marry another, — fond and willing as ladies sometimes 
are. Is not this explanation enough ?” 

Paul looked at him steadily. These mocking words 
made him quiver from head to foot. 

“ Are you coward and villain both ?” 

The words dropped from the young Frenchman’s lips 
like leaden bullets. His eyes, lurid with rage, lighted up 
the pale features with deathly meaning. 

Arnold was brave as a wild beast, and felt it in every 
drop of the hot blood that boiled in his veins. He almost 
shouted back the answer. 

“ Coward ! You know better. Name your time and place.” 

His arm had been girding Amy’s waist till then, but as 
this frenzy of passion seized upon him, he pushed her 
away, and she fell like a dead creature at his feet. This 
mournful sight restored Paul to his better self. 

“ This is no time nor place,” he said. “ But to-morrow. ” 

“ To-morrow be it then,” cried Arnold, lifting his wife 
from the floor, and carrying her into another room 
“ Mother ! mother ! Come here. They have killed her 
among them.” 

Paul turned towards the window. Hannah was sitting 
on the high-backed couch, with her white face pressed 
against the crimson cushions. She was seized with a 
shivering fit as he drew near her. 

“ Hannah,” he said, “ must this part us ?” 

The answer came from her lips in broken gasps : 
“ I — I don’t know.” 

The minister interposed : “ Young man, dare you ask 
that question with murder in your heart ? Are you not 
even now planning the death of her brother ?” 

“ Sir !” answered Paul, in haughtv anger. “When the 
26 


418 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


honor of a family is outraged we do not go to the church 
for council ” 

Hannah leaned forward in her seat, and looked wildly 
-‘from Paul to the minister. 

“ Is it death that he means ?” she questioned in a hoarse 
whisper. 

No one answered. Her face, locked and cold a moment 
before, began to quiver. The hands, that lay like dead 
things in her lap, clasped each other and were uplifted. 

“ Oh, Paul, Paul ! He is my brother !” 

“ And she is my sister, — my insulted, wronged sister,” 
he answered, pointing to Laura, who stood transfixed, her 
white face fearfully contracted, and her eyes burning like 
fire. 

She turned her head, and came up to Paul. 

“ What is that you are saying ?” 

Paul threw his arm around her. 

“ Do not let us talk here, Laura.” 

" I thought some one spoke of killing him,” she said. 
Then, with a sudden blaze of intelligence, and a firmer • 
grasp of the hand, she cried out : “Do it, Paul ! do it, or 
I will.” 

Hannah arose to her feet, but her strength gave way, 
and she fell back, holding out her arms and crying 
piteously : 

“ Paul ! Paul !” 

The young man was overwhelmed by the terrible 
passion of his sister, and could only turn his face towards 
her in answer to that pathetic cry. 

All at once Laura changed. She sat down by Hannah 
with a dreary gesture of desolation. 

“ Did I frighten you, Hannah ?” she said. “ Don’t be 
terrified ; nothing shall harm you. My wrongs must rest 


CONFESSIONS OF DECEPTION. 419 


with myself. Paul, forget what I have been saying. It 

was wild, wicked, unwomanly. I charge you now, most 

solemnly charge you, — not to harm this man.” 

‘•Laura,” said Paul, in a voice that was stern, though 
compassionate ; “ the men of a house take care of its 
honor. Hannah, my beloved, trust me. I will do nothing 
that a just man should avoid. Have faith in me even in 
this painful trial.” 

He bent down with mournful grace and kissed Hannah 
upon the forehead, passing his hand over her hair with a 
mental blessing. Then he led his sister from the room. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

CONFESSIONS OF DECEPTION. 

When Hannah Arnold found herself alone with Os- 
borne, she arose, went towards him, and laid her hand 
on his arm. 

“ I think they mean to kill each other. You are one of 
God’s holy ministers. I beseech you, I charge you to 
prevent it. This man is my betrothed husband ; Benedict 
is my brother. The very thought of a conflict between 
them is awful.” 

“ My poor young lady, I will do my best ; but no person 
has influence over Arnold, I less than any one living. 
But I will not shrink from the duty.” 

Hannah pressed his arm gratefully with her trembling 
hand. 


m 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


“ Hush !” she whispered. “ It is his step.” 

She had heard aright. Arnold opened the door and 
looked into the room. 

“ Hannah, go help my mother. Amy has just come out 
of her fainting-fit. Go : we must not have the servants 
called up, or this miserable affair “will be all over town 
before morning. ” 

Hannah left the room. Arnold addressed the clergy- 
man : 

“ She has been frightfully ill, poor thing, and I now 
see that if this other affair had come off it would have 
killed her. I told her not to write, and did not know all. 
Whatever it was that sent you back, I am grateful for 
the accident. But for that, I might have gone on. After I 
saw you, the thing was impossible, and I am glad of it, 
for I never have and never shall love another woman.” 

“Poor thing! how she must have suffered!” said 
Osborne. 

“ It is over now. I will be kind to her, Osborne. Only 
help me to get her home again without scandal. I think 
the other party will be as anxious for that as I am. Go 
after them, Osborne. If the affair can be kept quiet among 
ourselves, I will make it worth your while.” 

“ How !” exclaimed Osborne, sharply, and his forehead 
flushed crimson. “ This to me, Arnold ?” 

“ Well, well, whether you will aid me or not, I must 
tell you a truth which you will thank me for. The re- 
membrance of that night in New York has made you un- 
happy.” 

“ Unhappy !” exclaimed Osborne, turning pale again. 
“ It has made me weary of life.” 

“But there was nothing in it. I wonder you ever 
believed what we told you.” 


CONFESSIONS OF D-ECEPTION. 421 

“But I remember ” 

“ Yes, being in a gambling-hell. Certainly that much 
is true ; but it happened innocently enough. You re- 
member going out into a hot August sun with us, after 
drinking moderately of wine at dinner, and being seized 
with a vertigo. We took you to the hotel, poured some 
brandy down your throat, and afterwards administered a 
rather heavy dose of laudanum, — congratulating each other 
that you were so easily disposed of, having made an en- 
gagement to meet some of our friends at the hall, and try 
our luck at cards. Your clerical character was in the 
way, and we did not know how to get rid of you. The 
sudden fit of illness was a godsend to us ; but in our in- 
experience we gave just enough laudanum to excite instead 
of stupefying you. 

“ For a little time you were quiet, and seemed dropping 
off to sleep. We thought ourselves safe then, and stole 
away. Just as we entered the hall, my companion 
turned and saw that you were following us. The door 
was already open, and several card-tables revealed. It 
was too late then, — so we made no resistance, and you 
walked in with us. The moment the blaze of the chan- 
delier fell on your face, I saw that the opiate had made 
you delirious. You looked around bewildered, spoke to 
no one, but walking wearily to a sofa, lay down, not to 
sleep, but in restless wakefulness. There you lay, hour 
after hour through the night, watching us as we lost and 
won at the card-table. Once or twice you got up and 
leaned over my chair, taking a sort of dazed interest in 
my game. 

“ Towards morning, the effects of the opiate left you. 
I never saw a look of wilder astonishment than came over 
your face. The anxiety with which you inquired how we 


422 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


came there first gave ns the idea of hoaxing yon. The 
rest I need not relate. You believed us, — believed that 
the wine we drank at dinner had unsettled your brain, 
and a night of ill-luck at card-playing had followed. We 
were a little taken aback when you asked us where the 
money had come from ; but my companion answered that 
you had borrowed it of me. Pray remember that you 
offered the note. I took it in order to carry out the 
deception, but never intended to use it against you in any 
way. Indeed, I would have told you the truth at once ; 
but in this community gambling is considered a horrible 
offence, and while you thought yourself my participant, I 
was sure of secresy.” 

Osborne sat with an elbow resting on his knee, shading 
his face with one hand : after one earnest glance at Arnold 
he had fallen into that position. As the end drew near, 
he began to tremble with thrills of intense gratitude : great 
tears came raining down from under his quivering fingers ; 
and he listened as if every word drained the agony from 
his heart. 

When Arnold paused, his great joy broke forth ; and 
lifting his face — where every delicate feature quivered 
with thankfulness — heavenward, he cried out : 

“ Thank God ! Oh, Father of mercies, I thank thee !” 

Not a shade of bitterness rested in his heart against the 
man who had deceived him so. He forgot the wrong in 
this sudden redemption from self-reproach, and turning to 
Arnold wrung his hand gratefully. 

“ You have taken the burden from my shoulders, — that 
cruel sense of guilt from my soul. I cannot remember 
the wrong sufficiently for reproaches. Thank God the 
service you demanded of me was not an absolute crime. 

“ I used the note to coerce you into that secret marriage- 


CONFESSIONS OF DECEPTION. 423 


service, and to force you out of the country ; but, upon 
my honor, I never thought of claiming the money,’ 7 said 
Arnold, touched, in spite of himself, by this generous 
forgiveness. “ At first I never thought of using it at all.” 

“ Let that pass, Arnold. It was well, perhaps, that I 
should be tried in the furnace. We must not be unforgiv- 
ing to the instruments our Divine Master uses in humbling 
us. I have nothing but thankfulness to offer, — nothing 
but joy to- express. But there was something that you 
asked of me. Ah, I remember. Yes, I will do that for 
the sake of your young wife.” 

“I shall be greatly obliged if you will, Osborne.” 

“ But there was something else, — threats, harsh words, 
— between you and that young Frenchman. Let me im- 
plore you, offer him no violence.” 

Arnold’s face flushed and his lip curved. 

“ Osborne, that man called me a coward !” 

“ That was in his justifiable rage.” 

“ Well, well, we will talk of that to-morrow. Just 
now I want you to serve me in the matter I spoke of. 
As yet, no one except yourself, beyond those who are 
interested, knows any thing of the scene which passed 
here this evening. See that it does not spread. The 
De Montreuil pride will second you in this.” 

“I will go at once,” was the prompt reply; and 
Osborne, weary as he was, hastened away on his kind 
mission. 

But when he reached , Paul De Montreuil’s door the 
servant refused him admis^on. 

Arnold had smothered his wrath in the presence of the 
clergyman, but it burned fiercely yet. The word coward, 
applied to him, still rang in his ear. Indeed, few men 
ever lived -who deserved it less. He had been humiliated, 


424 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


defied, and this thought kept the iron of his temper at a 
white heat. About an hour after Osborne left, he took his 
hat and went out, bending his steps to the house he had 
left early in the evening. 

“ Is De Montreuil in ?” he inquired of the servant at 
the door. 

“ You, Mr. Arnold, or any messenger from you, I was 
to admit,” answered the man. “He is in the library.” 

Arnold strode through the hall and passed into the 
library. Paul received him standing. Notwithstanding 
the rage that burned within them, these young men were 
pale, and seemed cold as ice. 

“ You have called me a villain, sir. Let that pass. I 
have come to prove that I am no coward. This quarrel is 
private ; let it remain so. We shall gain nothing by chal- 
lenging scandal ; therefore let us have no seconds. You 
have a servant who can be faithful and silent. He shall 
load our pistols and measure the ground. I require no 
one. Does this please you, Paul De Montreuil ?” 

“ And the place ?” 

This was De MontreuiPs sole answer. 

“Between the cedar grove and the shore on the way to 
East Haven. The hour must be sunrise, or we may be 
interrupted.” 

“And the arms ?” 

“Pistols, if that pleases you.” 

De Montreuil bowed and turned away. Arnold left the 
house. 

“Francis,” said De Montreuil, looking into the hall, 
“ go to some stable and have a carriage ready before day- 
break.” 

The servant went out in haste, for it was getting 
late. 


THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 425 

Just before dawn the next morning, a hackney carriage 
drove from Paul De MontreuiPs door, moving cautiously 
at first, but driving off, as it left the town, at a rapid speed. 
Another carriage left the Elm Tree tavern at the same 
hour. 


CHAPTER XLY. 


THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 


In the first gray of the morning, a female ran up 
the steps of Paul De MontreuiPs dwelling, and seizing on 
the knocker sent one loud, prolonged reverberation through 
the building. The servant who had let Paul out was m the 
passage, and hurried to open the door, fearing that another 
summons might awake his young mistress, who had gone 
to her room ill, the night before. 

Amy looked wistfully into his face, but asked no ques- 
tions, though her lips moved. She passed him before he 
could stop her, ran up the stairs, and, guided by the bronze 
statue in its niche, entered the chamber to which she had 
carried such bitter sorrow the night before. The light was 
dim, but she saw the toilet in its drifts of lace, the glitter 
of jewels cast upon it, and on the carpet a wreath of white 
roses that had been cast down and trampled upon. In the 
centre of the sumptuous white bed Laura De Montreuil 
was lying, pale, exhausted, and in a troubled sleep. She 
had taken off her wedding-dress, which was trailing partly 
around one of the bed-posts, partly on the floor. The rest 
of the superb costume which she had tried on in such tri- 
umph was still on her n ; for she had thrown herself 



426 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


down half-clad, with her face upon the pillows, and there 
sobbed and moaned herself into a slumber, which left her 
beautiful face contracted with pain, and great purple 
shadows around her eyes. 

Amy flung aside the curtains and put back the hair from 
Laura’s face, revealing all the anguish that had settled 
there during the night. 

“ Laura, Laura De Montreuil, hear me ! You must not 
sleep. They have gone to kill each other, — kill each other, 
I say !” — 

Laura started up, saw who it was that stood over ber, 
and pushed the young wife away. 

“ You here !” she said, with intense bitterness. “ How 
dare you break in upon me !” 

“Oh do not stay to hate me, or death will come of it !” 
cried Amy, wringing her hands. “They have gone to 
fight.” 

“ They, who ?” 

“Your brother and my and Benedict. I was ill, 

and could not sleep. He left the house softly, but I 
beard it.” 

Laura leaped to the floor and rang the bell violently. 
The servant came hurrying up-stairs. 

“ Your master — where is he ?” 

“ Gone twenty minutes ago.” 

“ Where ?” 


“ I heard him order the driver to take the East Haven 
road, and something about the shore and a cedar grove.” 

“ Have the horses harnessed, quickly. Before I am 
dressed the carriage must be ready.” 

The servant partook of her panic and ' went out in 
haste. 


Laura gathered up her Ion 


m 


and twisted it into a 




THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 427 

knot back of her head, thus leaving the misery in her 
face exposed. She looked around for a dress, lifted the 
mass of glittering silk and frostlike lace that she had 
worn the night before, and flung it away in disgust. She 
opened a wardrobe, found some darker garment and a 
black-silk cloak, which she put on. The white shoes and 
ruby buckles alone remained of her bridal costume, but 
she had no time to cast them off. 

“ Come/’ she said, turning to Amy, as a carriage stopped 
at the door. “ First let us find your husband’s father.” 
She went down-stairs, saying this, and stepped into the 
carriage. Amy followed her, breathless and trembling. 

The cedar grove ran parallel with the beach, which lay 
a narrow strip of white sand between it and the sound. 
Sometimes the shadows of its tallest trees stretched almost 
to the water. It was so thick with an undergrowth of 
barberries and juniper-trees that a person standing on the 
beach could only be seen by any chance fisherman that 
might be early upon the water. 

The sun was cresting every tiny wave that rippled the 
sound, with rose tints, and dew-drops lay like diamonds 
among the thick purple berries on the juniper-bushes. The 
morning was so lovely that the two men who had come to 
the beach, burning with wrathful passions, paused* one 
moment to wonder at themselves. But this feeling 
passed with the moment. They came to the sands 
by different directions, and were forced to walk some 
distance in order to meet each other ; and the hate that 
had sprung up in their hearts — not less with the wronger 
than the wronged — burned fiercely before they stood face 
to face. There was no mockery of forms between these 
two men, who, twenty-four hours earlier, had been as 
brothers. Each lifted his hat haughtily, and that was all. 


428 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


De Montreuil’s French servant proceeded at once to 
measure off the ground, having first assured himself that 
no one was in sight, either on the water or the land. 
This man had seen duels before and acted his part well. 
Not a word was spoken while he loaded the pistols, and, 
obeying a signal from his master, gave Arnold the first 
choice. Then they retreated, each to his position, and 
stood ready. Both these men were brave, and one had 
been fearfully wronged, but there was solemnity rather 
than hate in their white faces, as they turned upon each 
other. 

They stood within the shadow of the cedars. There 
was no advantage on either side. The stillness of death 
was around them, save that the birds sung, and the waters 
rippled. Slowly, steadily, and with deadly intent the 
pistols were raised. One terrible instant, and their sharp 
reverberation rang over the waters. When the smoke 
cleared away both men were standing. Paul had missed 
his aim by a hair’s breadth, but Arnold had fired in the 
air. He would have advanced to Paul, but the young man 
tossed his pistol on the ground and ordered the man to 
load it again. 

“ Take your place, sir,” he said, addressing Arnold. 
“ I will not be insulted by forbearance. If you fire in the 
air again I will shoot you down like a dog.” 

Arnold’s forehead flamed scarlet ; his eyes blazed ; he 
was not likely to fling away his fire after that. Again 
they retreated to their places with terrible pui'pose on 
both sides. They had not heard the sound of wheels 
behind the cedar grove, for the roads were sandy and 
gave forth little noise ; but two females were wildly 
forcing a passage through the thick undergrowth, and with 
them came an old man, from whose face drops of anguish 


THE" DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 429 

were falling like rain. Out upon the beach they rushed, 
dumb with terror. The combatants saw them, and en- 
raged at the intrusion lifted their weapons with a fierce 
instinct of murder. But, with a cry that rang over the 
waters like the scream of a wounded eagle, the old man 
bounded across the sands and stood between them, — his 
gray head thrown back, his chest heaving. 

“ In the name of the living God, I charge ye, do no 
murder !” 

That old face was eloquent with solemn power. His 
voice swelled upon the air like the vibrations of a trumpet. 
The grandeur of his courage struck the combatants mute ; 
for he had rushed between the uplifted weapons while 
their fingers were on the triggers. It was a miracle that 
his body had not been pierced by two bullets. 

The pistols dropped. The young men rushed forward 
in terror : they could not believe the old man safe. But 
in his progress Arnold was stopped by his wife, who fell 
upon her knees in the sand, and with her poor white face 
uplifted piteously to his, besought him to have compas- 
sion on her, and heap no more guilt on his soul. 

Laura advanced to her brother. 

“ Paul,” she said, “ I and that poor woman alone have 
been wronged by this man. It is my pleasure that he 
should live. Would you, a He Montreuil, satisfy our honor 
with the small revenge of his life? I give it to him with 
all my soul, as I would have bestowed this hand three 
days ago, knowing that there is a God in heaven who 
shall avenge us both, if vengeance is just.” 

Paul made a gesture of angry impatience, but the 
noble girl clung to his arm. 

“ Look at the old man. Think of his daughter, your 
betrothed wife. See that poor creature groveling at his 


430 


THE KEJECTED WIFE. 


feet. Are we barbarians to sacrifice four innocent per- 
sons that one guilty one may be punished ?” 

She stooped to the sand, took up her brother’s pistol 
which was half buried there, and hurled k into the sea. 

Paul made no resistance : her sublime forgiveness si- 
lenced the storm of passion which had led him almost to 
murder. 

“ Laura,” he said, “you have the true De Montreuil 
courage, — that of a sublime forgiveness. I am but a pre- 
tender.” 

They went up to the old , man, who had sunk to the 
earth with his white head bowed upon his two hands. 
He was sobbing like a child, and every nerve in his stout 
frame quivered, like*' rushes swept by the wind. 

Arnold saw his father thus stricken to the earth, and 
would have gone to him but for Amy, who was seized 
with a fit of trembling. Laura turned her eyes upon him 
for the first time. She saw that the features she had once 
thought so noble were quivering and that tears were 
rushing*to his eyes. She went forward and raised Amy 
from the ground and supported her with her arm. 

“ Go,” she said, in the grandeur of her forgiveness. 
“ You can comfort him. We have not the power.” 

Arnold thanked her with a look, and going forward, 
bent over the old man. 

“ Father, I will obey you. As God is my judge, I did 
not wish to harm him, — only to prove that I was not the 
coward he thought. My pistol was fired in the air.” 

The old man lifted his face with a glance of yearning 
thankfulness that smote his son to the soul ; for all that 
was kindly in his nature rose uppermost then. 

“ I would give half my life that all this had not hap- 


THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 431 

pened to wound you so,” he said, careless that Paul was 
standing by to hear his confession. 

The old man grasped the hand his son held out between 
both his. 

“ Is God giving back my son ?” he said. “ Let us go 
home now. Your mother will be frightened.” 

Arnold supported his father to the carriage, for the 
almost supernatural strength which had brought the old 
man to the ground utterly failed now. Then he turned 
to lift Amy in, but she clung to Laura. 

“No, no, he needs you most. It is better that you 
should be alone with him,” she said. “ I shall feel the joy 
of this reunion just as much.” 

Amy had spoken with courage and cheerfulness, but 
Laura saw that it was forced, for the poor young creature 
quivered like a frightened bird under her clasping arm. 

“ May I go in ?” faltered Amy, as the carriage stopped 
at De MontreuiPs door. “ It — it is only the fright ; but I 
tremble so.” 

Paul, w r ho had driven home more rapidly than his sister, 
stood on the steps ready to help her to descend, but she 
put him gently aside as Amy was getting out, and went 
up-stairs with her. 

Another day and night brought the Leonards to Yew 
Haven ; and the three families that had been a fate each 
to the other were assembled at Paul de MontreuiPs dwell- 
ing ; for in its bridal chamber Amy Arnold lay dying. 
The storm of sorrow and passion that had disturbed the 
group now gathered around her bed, only a few hours 
before, was hushed and silent. That gentle creature had 
sunk under her suffering, and a harsh thought would have 
been sacrilege there. 

The white bed had been drawn into the centre of the 


432 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


room, and its curtains, gathered up in a cloud, brooded 
whitely over her as she lay with her eyes wide open, and 
her golden hair heavy and wet with the death dew that 
rained from her face. She was dying of exhaustion, — con- 
tinual anguish had broken up her life. 

The toilet, still covered with lace that draped it like fall- 
ing snow, was cleared of its rich litter. Jewels and white 
roses had been swept away, and in their place stood a 
small coffin covered with black velvet, and studded with 
silver nails. The lid was unscrewed, and through the 
crevices came the pure, sweet scent of tuberoses, cape 
jessamines, and heliotrope, that pervaded the whole room. 

When she first heard that her daughter was very ill, the 
grief of Mrs. Leonard had been terrible, but now, bravely 
hushing her sobs, she knelt by her husband in waiting 
silence. 

No one charged Arnold with being the cause of that 
young creature’s death, but he felt the bitter truth, and 
his strong heart ached under it. 

The clergyman, Osborne, was there. He had just ad- 
ministered the sacrament to the dying woman, and she 
had whispered him to w^ait till the last. 

Amy had just strength enough to move her hand, which 
sought that of her husband. 

“ Father,” she said, “ have you forgiven my husband ?” 

“ As I pray God to forgive me,” was the solemn answer. 

“ And you, mother ?” 

Mrs. Leonard burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. 

“I can’t say. I hope so. But it’s Mrd, oh, it is 
hard !” 

“ Father, mother, listen : I am djrAf ,ou will not re- 
fuse me what I ask. ” 


THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 433 


“ No, no,” sobbed the mother. “ Oh, if God would 
only let me die for you, Amy I” 

“ It is of Benedict I speak. I consented to marry him 
in secret. That threw him into temptation. He saw an- 
other, — the true mate for him. He loved her.” 

“ No, no, Amy,” Arnold broke forth. “ I never loved 
any woman but you.” 

Amy’s cold fingers clung closer to his a moment, and 
fell away again. 

“ It was my disobedience, father, that led him into that 
terrible temptation, but his enemies will not see that. 
When they know that he was about to marry another it 
will be imputed to him as a crime.” 

“ It was a crime,” Arnold broke forth. “ Do not waste 
one precious breath on me, Amy.” 

She turned her eyes upon him full of yearning love, 

• — then spoke to her father again. 

“ Father, our marriage was a secret to all the world 
outside this room. Let it rest a secret still. Those invited 
to his wedding must never know that he had a wife.” 

Leonard rose from his knees. 

“Amy, my child, remember our neighbors, — the 
church.” 

“ They will forgive when I am dead. Father, where 1 
go, all things are known.” 

“ But, my child ” 

She moved her head on the pillow wearily. 

“ Let it be so, father ; I am dying. Had it lived,” she 
murmured, struggling to rise up and look on the coffin, 
“ I would not have asked it ; but now, but now ” 

She paused, and the lids fell softly over her eyes, — not 
in sleep, but restful ly. 

21 


434 


THE REJECTED WIFE. 


Arnold fell upon his knees on one side of the bed, 
utterly subdued. 

“Oh, Amy, my poor, martyred wife, ask nothing for 
me ! Let the world do its worst. I deserve it, I deserve 
it !” 

“ Hush !” she whispered. “ Hush ! it troubles me. 
Father, did you promise ?” 

“ Yes, my Amy, I promise.” 

“ And do they all promise — never to tell, never to let 
any one know that we were man and wife ?” 

A low solemn murmur went up around the bed. A 
smile trembled across her lips as moonlight glimmers on 
a lily. She rested peacefully a few moments. Then she 
spoke again : 

“Hannah, my sister.” 

Hannah came close to her pillow. Amy’s shadowy 
hand struggled out to meet hers. 

“Paul De Montreuil.” 

The young Frenchman arose and left the chair on 
which he had been sitting. 

“You love each other,” she whispered. “After I am 
dead the old pride may come back and separate you. Let 
me see you married before I die.” 

No one spoke. This strange request struck them all 
with profound astonishment. Laura came up to her 
brother and took his hand. 

“ Paul, let this be as Amy wishes. Our guardian 
angels are here now. Do not let us wait till they sleep 
again.” 

“ She desires to save us from an eternal separation. 
Hannah, in spite of all, do you love me well enough for 
this ?” 


THE DUEL AND THE WEDDING. 4.35 

Hannah Arnold lifted her eyes to his face, and he was 
answered. 

Upon the toilet where the coffin stood lay a prayer- 
book, from which the minister had just been reading the 
prayers for the dying. He opened the volume again, and 
his deep, solemn voice filled the room while Paul De 
Montreuil and Hannah Arnold stood side by side in the 
shadow of that death-couch, and pledged eternal faith to 
each other. 

When the august ceremony was over, and all had been 
silent for some time, Amy opened her eyes wide, and 
looked from Arnold to Laura. 

“When I am gone,” she was saying, but Laura turned 
deathly pale and put up both her hands, shuddering visi- 
bly. Amy saw it, and her eyes turned upon Arnold. He 
too was shrinking in pain from the idea which spoke in 
Amy’s dying eyes. 

“ Is it so ?” she murmured, “ then it was not love — not 
— not love. That was mine — mine — all mine.” 

“ Oh Amy, Amy, my beloved wife, hear and believe 
me ! I did love you and you only ! Great heavens, if you 
could only understand it 1” 

“ I do — I — Arnold — husband — love !” 

She started up from the pillows, reached up her arms, 
drew herself up to his bosom, and died therewith the 
word love freezing on her lips. 

On the day that Laura De Montreuil was to have been 
married the wedding invitations had all been cancelled, 
and a funeral went forth from her home instead. Accept- 
ing this mournful reason for the delay, it occasioned no 
unpleasant comment ; and not long after Paul left the 
country to travel in Europe with his wife and sister. 


436 the rejected wife. 

Even before this Arnold bade farewell to bis native State, 
and entered upon a career of ambition which ended in an 
infamous immortality. 

When the news of his great political treason first 
reached Europe, Laura Be Montreuil, the most lovely and 
coldly beautiful woman at the Court of France, fainted in 
the presence of the queen and all her ladies. But the 
pledge given in that solemn death-chamber was nevei 
broken ; and when people passed the grave of Arnold’s 
young wife, and saw only the simple name “ Amy” on 
the tombstone, they little knew how closely that name 
had been linked with his destiny. 


THE END. 


tr*C 


I 



PHILADELPHIA, PA. 


ANY OF THE BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE, NOT TO BE 
HAD OF YOUR BOOKSELLER, WILL BE SENT BY MAIL, 
POST-PAID, ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS. 


i 


I 


We invite all Booksellers, TTews Agents, Canvassers, 
and all others, to look carefully over this Cata- 
logue, and then send on their orders for whatever 
they may want, to 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

The Books in the following Catalogue, will be found to be the 
most Saleable, as well as the Best and Latest Publications by the 
most Popular and Celebrated writers in the world. They are also 
the most Readable and Entertaining Books Published. 

New Books are issued by us every week, comprising the most 
entertaining and absorbing works published, suitable for the 
Parlor, Library, Sitting-Room, Railroad or Steamboat Reading, 
by the best and most popular writers in the world. 

Any person wanting any books at all, from a single book to a 
dozen, hundred, thousand, or larger quantity of books, had bet- 
ter look over this Catalogue, and mark what they want, and tlun 
send on their orders at once, to T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
Philadelphia, Pa., who publish over One Thousand Miscella- 
neous Books, and have the largest stock in the country, and 
will sell any or all of them at very low prices for net cash. 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS have just issued a New and 
Complete Descriptive Catalogue, as well as Wholesale Price 
Lists, which they will send to any Bookseller, News Agent, Can- 
vasser, or Librarian, on their sending, for one. 

Enclose one, five, ten, twenty, fifty, or one hundred dollars, 
or more, to us in a letter, and state what special books you wish, 
or what kind of books you want, and on receipt of the money 
ihey will be packed and sent to you at once, in any way you may 
4 3l roct, well assorted, with catalogues, circulars, show-bills, etc. 

ftJF* A News Agent, Bookseller, or Canvasser is Wanted in 
every town on this Continent, to engage in the sale of our 
works, on which large profits can be made 

Jgigr’ Any or all of the boohs in this Catalogue will be sent free of 
postage by us, on receipt of retail price , when not to be had of your Book- 
seller or News Agent. 

Booksellers, Librarians, News Agents, Canvassers, 
Pedlers, and all others, will please address all orders for 
whatever books they may want, to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON k BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. 8. PETERSON «»„ BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


HEW BOOKS ISSUED EVERY WEEK. 

Orders solicited from Booksellers, Librarians, Canvassers, News 
Agents, and all others in want of good and fast selling 
books, which will be supplied at very Low Prices. ^§| 


MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS. 

Complete in thirty-nine large duodecimo volumes, hound in morocco cloth , gilt hack , 
price $ 1.75 each; or $ 68.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

How He Won Her, $1 75 


Her,. 

Fair Play, 1 75 

The Spectre Lover 1 75 

Victor’s Triumph, 1 75 

A Beautiful Fiend, 1 75 

The Artist’s Love, 1 75 

A Noble Lord, 1 75 

Lost Heir of Linlithgow, 1 75 

Tried for her Life, 1 75 

Cruel as the Grave, 1 75 

The Maiden Widow, 1 75 

The Family Doom, 1 75 

The Bride’s Fate, 1 75 

The Changed Brides, 1 75 

Fallen Pride, 1 75 

The Christmas Guest, 1 75 

The Widow’s Son, 1 75 

The Bride of Llewellyn, 4 ... 1 75 

The Fortune Seeker, 1 75 


The Fatal Marriage, $1 75 

The Deserted Wife, 1 75 

The Bridal Eve, 1 75 

The Lost Heiress, 1 75 

The Two Sisters, 1 75 

Lady of the Isle, 1 75 

Prince of Darkness, 1 75 

The Three Beauties, . 1 75 

Vivia; or the Secret of Power, 1 75 

Love’s Labor Won, 1 75 

The Gipsy’s Prophecy, 1 75 

Haunted Homestead^ 1 75 

Wife’s Victory, 1 75 

Allworth Abbey, 1 75 

The Mother-in-Law, 1 75 

India; Pearl of Pearl River,.. 1 75 

Curse of Clifton, 1 75 

Discarded Daughter, 1 75 

The Mystery of Dark Hollow,.. 1 75 


The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger, 1.75 | Retribution, .... 1 75 
Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1®0 each. 

MBS. ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS. 

Complete in twenty-two large duodecimo volumes , hound in morocco cloth , gilt back , 
price $ 1.75 each ; or $ 38.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

The Soldiers’ Orphans, $1 75 

Silent Struggles, 1 75 

The Rejected Wife, 1 75 

The Wife’s Secret, 1 75 


Bertha’s Engagement, $1 75 

Bellehood and Bondage, 1 75 

The Old Countess, 1 75 

Lord Hope’s Choice, 1 75 

The Reigning Belle,. 1 75 

A Noble Woman, 1 75 

Palaces and Prisons, 1 75 

Married in Haste, 1 75 

Wives and Widows, 1 75 

Ruby Gray’s Strategy, 1 75 

Doubly False, 1 75 


Mary Derwent, 1 75 

Fashion and Famine, 1 75 

The Curse of Gold, 1 75 

Mabel’s Mistake, 1 75 

The Old Homestead, 1 75 

The Heiress, 1 75 

The Gold Brick, 1 75 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

MRS. C. A. WARFIELD’S WORKS. 

Complete in six large duodecimo volumes, hound in morocco cloth, gilt hack, prxce $ 1.75 
each ; or $ 10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


Monfort Hall, $1 75 

Miriam’s Memoirs, 1 75 

Sea and Shore, 1 75 


The Household of Bouverie,....$l 75 
Hester Howard’s Temptation,.. 1 75 
A Double Wedding, 1 75 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Pric«, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. (1) 


2 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 


Green and Gold Edition. Complete in twelve voluHLes, in green morocco cloth , 
price $1.75 each; or $21.00 a set , each set is put up in a neat box. 


Ernest Linwood, 

.$1 75 

Love after Marriage, 


75 

The Planter’s Northern Bride,. 

.. 1 75 

Eoline; or Magnolia Vale,... 

.. 1 

75 

Courtship and Marriage, 

. 1 75 

The Lost Daughter, 

.. 1 

75 

Rena; or, the Snow Bird, 

. 1 75 

The Banished Son, 

.. 1 

75 

Marcus Warland, 

. 1 75 

Helen and Arthur, 

.. 1 

75 

Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, 

.. 1 

75 


Robert G.-ahnrn; the Sequel to " Linda; or Pilot of Belle Creole,”... 1 75 
Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 

Every housekeeper should possess at least one of the following Cook Books, as they 
would save the price of it in a week’s cooking. 

The Queen of the Kitchen. Containing 1007 Old Maryland 


Family Receipts for Cooking, Cloth, $1 75 

Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book,.... Cloth, 1 75 

Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book, Cloth, 1 75 

Petersons’ New Cook Book,. Cloth, 1 75 

Widdifield’s New Cook Book, Cloth, 1 75 

Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be, Cloth, 1 75 

The National Cook Book. By a Practical Housewife, Cloth, 1 75 

The Young Wife’s Cook Book, Cloth, 1 75 

Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking, Cloth, 1 75 

Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million, Cloth, 1 75 


The Family Save-All. By author of “National Cook Book,” Cloth, .1 75 
Francatelli’s Modern Cook. With the most approved methods of 
French, English, German, and Italian Cookery. With Sixty-two 
Illustrations. One volume of 600 pages, bound in morocco cloth, 5 00 

JAMES A. MAITLAND’S WOBKS. 


Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes , bound in cloth , gilt back, price $1.75 
each ; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


The Watchman, $1 75 

The Wanderer,... 1 75 

The Lawyer’s Story, 1 75 


Diary of an Old Doctor, $1 75 

Sartaroe, 1 75 

The Three Cousins, 1 75 


The Old Patroon ; or the Great Van Brock Property, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 
each ; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

The Sealed Packet, $1 75 I Dream Numbers, $1 75 

Garstang Grange, 1 75 | Beppo, the Conscript, 1 75 

Leonora Casaloni,... 1 75 | Gemma, 1 75 | Marietta, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


FREDRIKA BREMER’S WORKS. 

Complete in six large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 each; 
or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

Father and Daughter, $1 75 I The Neighbors, $1 75 

The Four Sisters, 1 75 I The Home, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 
Life in the Old World. In two volumes, cloth, price, 3 50 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Prioe, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 3 


MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY’S WORKS. 

Complete in fourteen large duodecimo volumes , bound in morocco cloth , gilt back , price 
$1.75 each; or $24.50 a set , each set is put up in a neat box. 


A New Way to Win a Fortune $1 75 

The Discarded Wife, 1 75 

The Clandestine Marriage, 1 75 

The Hidden Sin, 1 75 

The Dethroned Heiress, 1 75 

The Gipsy’s Warning, 1 75 

All For Love, 1 75 


Why Did He Marry Her ? $1 75 

Who Shall be Victor? 1 75 

The Mysterious Guest, 1 75 

Was He Guilty? 1 75 

The Cancelled Will, 1 75 

The Planter’s Daughter, 1 75 

Michael Rudolph, 1 75 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS. 

Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back , price $1.75 
each ; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


The Border Rover, $1 75 

Clara Moreland, 1 75 

The Orphan’s Trials, 1 75 


Bride of the Wilderness, $1 75 

Ellen Norbury, I 75 

Kate Clarendon, 1 75 


Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The Heiress of Bellefonte, 75 | The Pioneer’s Daughter, 75 

D0ESTICK3’ WORKS. 

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 
each ; or $7.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

Doesticks’ Letters, $1 75 I The Elephant Club, $1 75 

Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah, 1 75 | Witches of New York, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back , price $1.75 
each ; or $7.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

Gambling Exposed, $1 75 i Reformed Gambler, $1 75 

The Gambler’s Life, 1 75 f Secret Band of Brothers, 1 75 

Above arc each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

DOW’S PATENT SERMONS. 

Complete in four large .duodecimo volumes, bound, in cloth, gilt back, price $1.50 
each ; or $6.00 a set, each set is pul up in a neat box. 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st Dow’s Patent Sermons, 3d 


Series, cloth, $1 50 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d 
Series, cloth 1 50 


Series, cloth, $1 50 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th 
Series, cloth, .\ 1 50 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 

WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS. 

Basil; or, The Crossed Patb..$l 50 | The Dead Secret. 12mo $1 50 

Above are each in one large- duodecimo volume, bound in cloth. 


The Dead Secret, 8vo 50 

Basil; or, the Crossed Path, 75 

Hide and Seek, 75 

After Dark 75 


The Queen’s Revenge, 75 

Miss or Mrs ? 50 

Mad Monkton, 50 

Sights a-Foot, 50 


The Stolen Mask, 25 | The Yellow Mask,... 25 | Sister Rose,... 25 

The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form. 

FRANK FORRESTER’S SPORTING BOOK. 

Frank Forrester’s Sporting Scenes and Characters. By Henry Wil- 
liam Herbert. With Illustrations by Darley. Two vols., cloth,.. .$4 00 


Ig-gT Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


4 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


BOOKS FOR PRIVATE STUDY AND SCHOOLS. 

The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and 
Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary 
Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages..$2 00 
Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of 
Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of 
Health, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By An- 


drew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations 2 00 

The French, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian Languages Without 
a Master. Whereby any one of these Languages can be learned 

without a Teacher. By A. H. Monteith. One volume, cloth 2 00 

Comstock’s Colored Chart. Being a perfect Alphabet of the Eng- 


lish Language, Graphic and Typic, with exercises in Pitch, Force 
and Gesture, and Sixty-Eight colored figures, representing the va- 
rious postures and different attitudes to be used in declamation. 

On a large Roller. Every School should have a copy of it,.. 6 00 

Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. By Baron Justus Liebig... 2 00 

WORKS BY THE VEBY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following hooks are each issued in one large duodecimo volume, 
bound in cloth, at $1.75 each, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


The Initials. A Love Story. By Baroness Tautphoeus, $1 75 

The Autobiography of Edward Wortley Montagu, 1 75 

Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “Zaidee,” 1 75 

Family Pride. By author of “ Pique,” “ Family Secrets,” etc 1 75 

Self-Sacrifice. By author of “ Margaret Maitland,” etc 1 75 

The Woman in Black. A Companion to the ‘‘Woman in White,” ... 1 75 

A Woman’s Thoughts about Women. By Miss Muloch, 1 75 

Flirtations in Fashionable Life. By Catharine Sinclair, 1 75 

False Pride; or, Two Ways to Matrimony. A Charming Book, 1 75 

The Heiress in the Family. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel, 1 75 

Popery Exposed. An Exposition of Popery as it was and is, 1 75 

The Heiress of Sweetwater. A Charming Novel, 1 75 

Woman’s Wrong. By Mrs. Eiloart, author of “St. Bede’s,” 1 75 

A Lonely Life. By the author of “Wise as a Serpent,” etc 1 75 

The Macdermots of Ballycloran. By Anthony Trollope, 1 75 

Lost Sir Massingberd. By the author of “ Carlyon’s Year,” 1 75 

The Forsaken Daughter* A Companion to “Linda,”.. 1 75 ^ 

Love and Liberty. A Revolutionary Story. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 
Rose Douglas. A Companion to “ Family Pride,” and “ Self Sacrifice,” 1 75 
Family Secrets. A Companion to “Family Pride,” and “Pique,”... 1 75 

The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer, 1 75 

My Son’s Wife. By author of “Caste,” “Mr. Arle,” etc 1 75 

The Rich Husband. By author of “ George Geith,” 1 75 

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. By Emmeline Lott, 1 75 

The Rector’s Wife; or, the Valley of a Hundred Fires, 1 75 

Woodburn Grange. A Novel. By William Howitt, 1 75 

Country Quarters. By the Countess of Blessington, 1 75 

Out of the Depths. The Story of a “Woman’s Life,” 1 75 

The Coquette; or, the Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton, 1 75 

The Pride of Life. A Story of the Heart. By Lady Jane Scott,.... 1 75 

The Lost Beauty. By a Noted Lady of the Spanish Court 1 75 

Rome and the Papacy. A History of the Men, Manners and Tempo- 
ral Government of Rome in the Nineteenth Century, 1 75 


Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


^1T Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on Receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 5 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following books are each issued in one large duodecimo volume i; 
bound in cloth , at $1.75 each , or each one is in paper cover at $1.50 each. 
The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated, ...$1 75 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00 ; or cloth,.. 1 75 

Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. A Charming Love Story, 1 75 

Tiie Quaker Soldier. A Revolutionary Bomance. By Judge Jones,.... 1 75 
The Man of the World. An Autobiography. By William North,... 1 75 
The Queen’s Favorite; or, The Price of a Crown. A Love Story,... 1 75 

Self Love; or, The Afternoon of Single and Married Life, 1 75 

Memoirs of Vidocq, the French Detective. Ilis Life and Adventures, 1 75 

The Clyffards of Clyffe, by author of “ Lost Sir Massingberd,” 1 75 

Cainors. “The Man of the Second Empire.” By Octave Feuillet,.. 1 75 
Life, Speeches and Martyrdom of Abraham Lincoln. Illustrated,... 1 75 
The Belle of Washington. With her Portrait. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 75 
Cora Belmont ; or, The Sincere Lover. A True Story of the Heart,. 1 75 
The Lover’s Trials; or Days before 1776. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 1 75 
High Life in Washington. A Life Picture. By Mrs. N. P. Lasselle, 1 75 

The Beautiful Widow; or, Lodore. By Mrs. Percy B. Shellej’, 1 75 

Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “Rival Belles,”... 1 75 
The Matchmaker. A Story of High Life. By Beatrice Reynolds,.. 1 75 
The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, 1 75 
The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of “ Margaret Maitland,” 1 75 
The Roman Traitor. By Henry Willianl Herbert. A Roman Story, 1 75 

The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty, 1 75 

The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. By J. B. Jones, 1 75 

The Devoted Bride. A Story of the Heart. By St. George Tucker, 1 75 
Love and Duty. By Mrs. Hubback, author of “ May and December,” 1 75 
Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. Harris, 1 75 
Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,... 1 75 

The Jealous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard, 1 75 

The Refugee. By Herman Melville, author of “ Omoo,” “ Typee,” 1 75 

The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “ Fanny Fern,” 1 75 

The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait, 1 75 

Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “Wild Western Scenes,” 1 75 

Currer Lyle ; or, the Autobiography of an Actress. By Louise Reeder. 1 75 
Coal, Coal Oil, and all other Minerals in the Earth. By Eli Bowen, 1 75 

The Cabin ami Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey,.... 1 75 

Secession, Coercion, and Civil War. By J. B. Jones, 1 75 

Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur, 1 75 

Lady Maud ; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, 1 75 

Wilfred Montressor ; or, High Life in New York. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Old Stone Mansion. By C. J. Peterson, author “Kate Aylesford,” 1 75 
Kate Aylesford. By Chas. J. Peterson, author “ Old Stone Mansion,”. 1 75 

Lorrimer Littlegood, by author “ Harry Coverdale’s Courtship,” 1 75 

The Earl’s Secret. A Love Story. By Miss Pardoe, 1 75 

The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe, author of “ The Earl’s Secret,” 1 75 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 
The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins, author “ The Crossed Path,”... 1 50 

The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, 1 50 

Indiana. A Love Story. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” 1 50 
Jealousy ; or, Teverino. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” etc. 1 50 
Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. By T. S. Arthur, 3 50 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on Receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


6 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The folloioing hooks are each issued in one large duodecimo volume , 
bound in cloth, at $1.75 each, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each . 
The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon 1st. By Alex. Dumas,. ...$1 75 
Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of “ The Gambler's Wife," etc. 1 75 
Saratoga. An Indian Tale of Frontier Life. A true Story of 1787,.. 1 75 

Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas, 1 75 

Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “Days of Shoddy," 1 75 
Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps," 1 75 
The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,"..... 1 75 
The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James, author of “Lord Montagu’s Page," 1 75 


Rose Foster. By George W. M. Reynolds, Esq., 1 75 

Lord Montagu’s Page. By G. P. R. James, author of “Cavalier,"... 1 75 
Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South worth’s Popular Novels. 38 vols. in all, 66 50 

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Celebrated Novels. 22 volumes in all, 38 50 

Miss Eliza A. Dupuy’s Works. Thirteen volumes in all, 22 25 

Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz’s Novels. Twelve volumes in all, 21 00 

Frederika Bremer’s Novels. Six volumes in all, 10 50 

T. A. Trollope’s Works. Seven volumes in all, 12 25 

James A. Maitland’s Novels. Seven volumes in all, 12 25 

Q. K. Philander Doestick’s Novels. Four volumes in all, 7 00 

Cook Books. The best in the world. Eleven volumes in all, 19 25 

Henry Morford’s Novels. Three volumes in all, 5 25 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Novels. Seventeen volumes in all, 29 75 

Emerson Bennett’s Novels. Seven volumes in all, 12 25 

Green’s Works on Gambling. Four volumes in all, 7 00 


Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


The following hooks are each issued in one large octavo volume, hound in 
cloth , at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, $2 00 

Mysteries of Paris ; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue,.... 2 00 

Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, 2 00 

Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations,.... 2 00 

Washington and His Generals. By George Lippard..., 2 00 

The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard, 2 00 

Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard, 2 00 

Paul Ardenheim ; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard,. 2 00 

The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainsworth, 2 50 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


The following are each issued in one large octavo volume , hound in cloth, price $2.00 
each , or a cheap edition is issued in paper cover , at lb cents each. 


Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever, Cloth, $2 00 

Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever,... Cloth, 2 00 

Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Davenport Dunn. A Man of Our Day. By Charles Lever, ...Cloth, 2 00 

Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Arthur O’Leary. By Charles Lever,,. .Cloth, 2 00 

Con Cregan. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Horace Templeton. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Kate O'Donoghue. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton, Cloth, 2 00 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at 75 cents each. 

Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. E. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 7 


NEW AND GOOD BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS. 

Beautiful Snow, and Other Poems. New Illustrated Edition. By J. 

W. Watson. With Illustrations by E. L. Henry. One volume, green 
morocco cloth, gilt top, side, and back, price $2.00 ; or in maroon 

morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc., $3 00 

The Outcast, and Other Poems. By J. W. Watson. One volume, 
green morocco cloth, gilt top, side and back, price $2.00 ; or in ma- 
roon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, ... 3 00 
The Young Magdalen; and Other Poems. By Francis S. Smith, 
editor of “ The New York Weekly.” With a portrait of the author. 
Complete in one large volume of 300 pages, bound in green mo- 
rocco cloth, gilt top, side, and back, price $3.00 ; or in maroon 


morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc...... 4 00 

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Volume One. Con- 
taining the “ First,” “Second,” and “ Third Series ” of the “ Breit- 

mann Ballads,” bound in morocco cloth, gilt, beveled boards, 3 00 

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Volume Two. 
Containing the “ Fourth ” and “Fifth Series” of the “ Breitmann 

Ballads,” bound in morocco cloth, gilt, beveled boards, 2 00 

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Being the above 
two volumes complete in one. In one large volume, bound in 
morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, and full gilt back, with beveled 

boards. With a full and complete Glossary to the whole work, 4 00 

Meister Karl’s Sketch Book. By Charles G. Leland, (Hans Breit- 
mann.) Complete in one volume, green morocco cloth, gilt side, 
gilt top, gilt back, with beveled boards, price $2.50, or in maroon 

morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc., 3 50 

Historical Sketches of Plymouth, Luzerne Co., Penna. By Hendrick 

B. Wright, of Wilkesbarre. With Twenty-five Photographs, 4 00 

John Jasper’s Secret. A Sequel to Charles Dickens’ “Mystery of 

Edwin Drood.” With 18 JB us k rat i° ns - Bound in cloth, 2 00 

The Last Athenian. From the Swedish of Victor Rydberg. Highly 
recommended by Fredrika Bremer. Paper $1.50, or in cloth, 2 00 


Across the Atlantic. Letters from France, Switzerland, Germany, 

Italy, and England. By C. H. Haeseler, M.D. Bound in cloth,... 2 00 
The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners. By 
Miss Leslie. Every lady should have it. Cloth, full gilt. back,... 1 75 
The Ladies’ Complete Guide to Needlework and Embroidery. With 

113 illustrations. By Miss Lambert. Cloth, full gilt back, 1 75 

The Ladies’ Work Table Book. With 27 illustrations. Cloth, gilt,. 1 50 
The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, paper $1.00, or cloth,... 1 50 
Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. By Dow, Jr. In 4 vols., cloth, each.... 1 50 
Wild Oats Sown Abroad. A Spicy Book. By T. B. Wit.mer, cloth,... 1 50 
Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, author of 

“ Linda,” etc. Full of Illustrations, and bound in cloth, 1 50 

Holliek’s Anatomy and Physiology of the Human Figure. Illustrated 
by a perfect dissected plate of the Human Organization, and by 
other separate plates of the Human Skeleton, such as Arteries, 

Veins, the Heart, Lungs, Trachea, etc. Illustrated. Bound, 2 00 

Life and Adventures of Don Quixote and his Squire Sancho Panza, 
complete in one large volume, paper cover, for $1.00, or in cloth,.. 1 75 
The Laws and Practice of the Game of Euchre, as adopted by tbe 

Euchre Club of Washington, D. C. Bound in cloth, 1 00 

Riddell’s Model Architect. With 22 large full page colored illus- 
trations, and 44 plates of ground plans, with plans, specifications, 
costs of building, etc. One large quarto volume, bound, $15 00 

Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


8 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


NEW AND GOOD BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS. 

Treason at Home. A Novel. By Mrs. Greenougb, cloth, $1 75 

Letters from Europe. By Colonel John W. Forney. Bound in cloth, 1 75 

Frank Fairleigh. By author of “ Lewis Arundel,” cloth, 1 75 

Lewis Arundel. By author of “ Frank Fairleigh,” cloth, 1 75 

Moore’s Life of lion. Schuyler Colfax, with a Portrait on steel, cloth, 1 50 

Whitefriars ; or, The Days of Charles the Second. Illustrated, 1 00 

Tan-go-ru-a. An Historical Drama, in Prose. By Mr. Moorhead,.... 1 00 

The Impeachment Trial of President Andrew Johnson. Cloth, 1 50 

Trial of the Assassins for the Murder of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth,... 1 50 
Lives of Jack Sheppard and Guy Fawkes. Illustrated. One vol., cloth, 1 75 

Consuelo, and Countess of Rudolstadt. One volume, cloth, 2 00 

Monsieur Antoine. By George Sand. Illustrated. One vol., cloth, 1 00 
Aurora Floyd. By Miss Braddon. One vol., paper 75 cents, cloth,... 1 00 
Christy and White’s Complete Ethiopian Melodies, bound in cloth,... 1 00 

The Life of Charles Dickens. By R. Shelton Mackenzie, cloth, 2 00 

The Life of Edwin Forrest; with Reminiscences and Personal Recol- 
lections. By Colley Cibber. With a Portrait and Autograph, 2 00 

Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott. One 8vo. volume, fine binding, 5 00 

Life of Sir Walter Scott. By John G. Lockhart. With Portrait, 2 50 

The Shakspeare Novels. Complete in one large octavo volume, cloth, 4 00 
Miss Pardoe’s Choice Novels. In one large octavo volume, cloth,... 4 00 
The Waverley Novels. National Edition. Five large 8vo. vols., cloth, 15 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. People's 12 mo. Edition. 22 vols., cloth, 34 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Green Cloth 12 mo. Edition. 22 vols., cloth, 44 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated 12 mo. Edition. 36 vols., cloth, 55 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated Soo. Edition. 18 vols., cloth, 31 50 
Charles Dickens’ Works. New National Edition. 7 volumes, cloth, 20 00 

HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATED WORKS. 

Each one is full of Illustrations, by Felix O. C. barley , and bound in Cloth . 

Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. With 21 Illustrations, ...$1 75 

Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations, .1 75 

Simon Suggs’ Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations, 1 75 

Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Illustrations,... 1 75 

Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations...... 1 75 

The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Illustrations, 1 75 

High Life in New York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustratidhs,.... 1 75 

Judge Haliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated, 1 75 

Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated, 1 75 

Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. Illustrated, 1 75 

Sam Slick, the Clockmaker. By Judge Haliburton. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations, ... 1 75 

Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each 1 75 

Naal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations,... 2 50 

MADAME GEOKGE SAND’S WOKKS. 

Consuelo, 12mo., cloth, $1 50| Jealousy, 12mo. cloth, $1 50 

Countess of Rudolstadt, 1 50 1 Indiana, 12mo., cloth, I 50 

Above are only published in 12mo., cloth, gilt side and back. 

Fanchon, the Cricket, price $1.00 in paper, or in cloth, 1 50 

First and True Love, 75 [The Corsair 50 

Simon, A Love Story, 50 |The Last Aldini, 50 

Monsieur Antoine. YVithll Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, 1 00 
Consuelo and Countess of Rudolstadt, octavo, cloth, 2 00 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Rexail Price* 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 9 


DUMAS’, REYNOLDS’, AND OTHER BOOKS IN CLOTH. 

The following are cloth editions of the following good books, and they art 
each issued in one large volume , bound in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

The Three Guardsmen ; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas, $1 75 
Twenty Years After; or the “ iSecond Series of Three Guardsmen,” ... 1 75 
Bragelonne; Son of Athos ; or “ Third Series of Three Guardsmen,” 1 75 
The Iron Mask ; or the te Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen,”.... 1 75 
Louise La Valliere; or the {t Fifth Series and End of the Three 

Guardsmen Series,” 1 75 

The Memoirs of a Physician. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Queen’s Necklace; or “ Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
Six Years Later; or the “ Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
Countess of Charny ; or “ Fourth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
Anclree De Taverney ; or “ Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
The Chevalier; or the “ Sixth Series and End of the Memoirs of a 

Physician Series,” ; 1 75 

The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas.. 1 75 

Edmond Dantes. A Sequel to the “ Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 75 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Diana of Meridor, or Lady of MonsoreaU. By Alexander Dumas,... 1 75 
The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author “ Count of Monte-Cristo,” 1 75 
The Mysteries of the Court of London. By George W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 
Rose Foster; or the u Second Series of Mysteries of Court of London,” 1 75 
Caroline of Brunswick; or the “ Third Series of the Court of London,” 1 75 
Yenetia Trelawney; or “ End of the Mysteries of the Court of London,” 1 75 

Lord Saxondale; or the Court of Queen Victoria. By Reynolds, 1 75 

Count Christoval. Sequel to “ Lord Saxondale.” By Reynolds, 1 75 

Rosa Lambert; or Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. By Reynolds, 1 75 
Mary Price; or the Adventures of a Servant Maid. By Reynolds,... 1 75 
Eustace Quentin. Sequel to “ Mary Price.” By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 
Joseph Wilmot; or the Memoirs of a Man Servant. By Reynolds,... 1 75 

Banker’s Daughter. Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” By Reynolds, 1 75 

Kenneth. A Romance of the Highlands. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 

Rye-House Plot; or the Conspirator’s Daughter. By Re3 T nolds, 1 75 

Necromancer; or the Times of Henry the Eighth. By Reynolds, 1 75 

Within the Maze. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,”. 1 75 
Dene Hollow. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Within the Maze,” 1 75 
Bessy Rane. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ The Channings,”.... 1 75 
George Canterbury’s Will. By Mrs. Wood, author “Oswald Cray,” 1 75 
The Channings. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of t( Dene Hollow,”... 1 75 

Roland Yorke. A Sequel to “ The Channings.” By Mrs. Wood, 1 75 

Shadow of Ashlydyatt. By Mrs. Wood, author of “ Bessy Rane,” 1 75 

Lord Oakburn’s Daughters; or The Earl’s Heirs. By Mrs. Wood,... 1 75 
Yerner’s Pride. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “The Channings,” 1 75 
The Castle’s Heir; or Lady Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 
Oswald Cray. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Roland Yorke,”.... 1 75 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or Trevlyn Hold. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 1 75 

The Red Court Farm. By Mrs. Wood, author of “Yerner’s Pride,”... 1 75 
Elster’s Folly. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “ Castle’s Heir,”... 1 75 
St. Martin’s Eve. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “Dene Hollow,” 1 75 
Mildred Arkell. By Mrs. Henry Wood, author of “East Lynne,”.... 1 75 
Cyrilla; ortho Mysterious Engagement. By author of “ Initials,” 1 75 

The Miser’s Daughter. By William Harrison Ainsworth, 1 75 

The Mysteries of Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “Quaker City,” 1 75 


IggT Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B, Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa, 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

4®* GREAT REDUCTION IN THEIR PRICES.^ 


PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION. ILLUSTRATED. 

Reduced in price from $2.50 to $1.50 a volume. 

Thi8 edition is printed on fine paper, from large, clear type, leaded, that 
all can read, containing Two Hundred Illustrations on tinted paper. 


Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.50 

Pickwick Papers, Cloth, 1.50 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 

Great Expectations, Cloth, 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 

Bleak House, Cloth, 

A Tale of Two Cities,.. .Cloth, 


1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 


Little Dorrit, Cloth, 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 

Sketches by “ Boz,” Cloth, 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 

Dickens’ New Stories, ..Cloth, 


Mystery of Edwin Drood/; and Master Humphrey’s Clock, Cloth, 

American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 

Hunted Down ; and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 

The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories, Cloth, 

The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 

John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to Mystery of Edwin Drood,... Cloth, 
Price of a set, in Black cloth, in twenty-two volumes, 


$1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
1.50 
2.00 
2.00 
$34.00 

Full sheep, Library style, 45.00 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges, ....< 56.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges, 61.50 

u u Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 66.00 

GREEN MOROCCO CLOTH, DUODECIMO EDITION. 

This is the “People’s Duodecimo Edition” in a new style of Binding, in 
Green Morocco Cloth, Bevelled Boards , Full Gilt descriptive hack , and 
Medallion Portrait on sides in gilt , in Twenty-two handy volumes, 12 mo., 
fine paper , large clear type, and Two Hundred Illustrations on tinted paper. 
Price $44 a set, and each set put up in a neat and strong box. This is 
the handsomest and be?t edition ever published for the price . 

ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION. 

Reduced in price from $2.00 to $1.50 a volume. 

This edition is printed on the finest paper, from large, clear type, leaded, 
that all can read, containing Six Hundred full page Illustrations, on 
tinted paper, from designs by Cruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise , 
McLenan , and other artists. This is the only edition published that con- 
tains all the original illustrations, as selected by Mr. Charles Dickens. 
The following are each contained in tivo volumes. 


Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $3.00 

Pickwick Papers. Cloth, 3.00 

Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 3.00 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 3.00 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 3.00 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 3.00 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 3.00 


Bleak House, Cloth, $3.00 

Sketches by “Boz,” Cloth, 3.00 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 3.00 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 3.00 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 3.00 

Little Dorrit, Cloth, 3.00 

Dombey and Son,.. Cloth, 3.00 

The following are each complete in one volume. 

Great Expectations, $1.50 | Dickens’ New Stories,.. .Cloth, $1.50 

Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey’s Clock,. ...Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes ; and the Uncommercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 

Hunted Down: and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; and other Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 2.00 

John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to Mystery of Edwin Drood, ...Cloth, 2.00 

Price of a set, 'In thirty-six volumes, bound in cloth, $55.00 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style, 74.00 

u “ Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 108.00 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS, 

m* GREAT REDUCTION IN THEIR PRICES.*^ 




ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION. 

Reduced in price from $2.50 to $1.75 a volume. 

This edition is printed from large type , double column, octavo page, each 
book being complete in one volume , the whole containing near Six Hundred 
Illustrations, by Gruikshank, Phiz, Browne, Maclise, and other artists. 

David Copperfield, Cloth, $1.75 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 1.75 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 

Dickens’ New Stories, ...Cloth, 

A Tale of Two Cities, ...Cloth, 
American Notes and 

Pic-Nic Papers, Cloth, 


.Cloth, 

$1.75 

.Cloth, 

1.75 

.Cloth, 

1.75 

.Cloth, 

1.75 

.Cloth, 

1.75 

Cloth, 

1.75 

Cloth, 

1.75 

Cloth, 

1.75 

Cloth, 

1.75 

Cloth, 

1.75 


1.75 

1.75 

1.75 

1.75 

1.75 

1.75 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in eighteen volumes, $31.50 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style, 40.00 

u u Half calf, sprinkled edges, 48.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges, 54.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique, or Half calf, full gilt backs,... 60.00 

“NEW NATIONAL EDITION” OF DICKENS’ WORKS. 

This is the cheapest bound edition of the works of Charles Dickens, pub- 
lished, all his writings being contained in seven large octavo volumes, 
with a portrait of Charles Dickens, and other illustrations. 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in seven volumes, $20.00 

u “ Full sheep, Library style, 25.00 

“ u Half calf, antique, or Half calf, full gilt backs,... 30.00 

CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION OF DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Each book being complete i 

Pickwick Papers, 50 

Nicholas Nickleby, 50 

Dombey and Son, 50 

Our Mutual Friend, 50 

David Copperfield, 50 

Martin Chuzzlewit, 50 

Old Curiosity Shop, 50 

Oliver Twist, 50 

American Notes, 25 

Hard Times, 25 

A Tale of Two Cities, 25 

Somebody’s Luggage, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper ? s Legacy, 25 

Mugby Junction, 25 

Dr. Marigold’s Prescriptions,... 25 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, 25 

Message from the Sea, 25 

Hunted Down; and Other Reprinted 


n one large octavo volume . 

Bleak House, 50 

Little Dorrit, 50 

Christmas Stories, 50 

Barnaby Rudge, 50 

Sketches by “Boz,” 50 

Great Expectations, 50 

Joseph Grimaldi, 50 

The Pic-Nic Papers, 50 

The Haunted House, 25 

Uncommercial Traveller, 25 

A House to Let, 25 

Perils of English Prisoners, 25 

Wreck of the Golden Mary, 25 

Tom Tiddler’s Ground, 25 

Dickens’ New Stories, 25 

Lazy Tour Idle Apprentices, 25 

The Holly-Tree Inn, ^.... 25 

No Thoroughfare, 25 

Pieces, 50 


THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. By Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie, 
containing a full history of his Life, his Uncollected Pieces, in Prose 
and Verse; Personal Recollections and Anecdotes; His Last Will in 
full; and Letters from Mr. Dickens never before published. With 
a Portrait and Autograph of Charles Dickens. Price $2.00. (11) 


12 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 


Count of Monte-Cristo, $1 50 

Edmond Dantes, 75 

The Three Guardsmen, 75 

Twenty Years After, 75 

Bragelonne, 75 

The Iron Mask, 1 00 

Louise La Yalliere, 1 00 

Diana of Meridor, 1 00 

Adventures of a Marquis, 1 00 

Love and Liberty, (1792-’93).. 1 50 


Memoirs of a Physician, Cl 00 

Queen’s Necklace, 1 00 

Six Years Later, 1 00 

Countess of Charny, 1 00 

Andree de Taverney, 1 00 

The Chevalier, 1 CO 

Forty-five Guardsmen, 1 00 

The Iron Hand, 1 CO 

The Conscript, 1 5 ! ) 

00 
50 


Countess of Monte-Cristo, 1 


Camille; or, The Fate of a Coquette, (La Dame Aux Camel ias,j 1 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


The Mohicans of Paris, 75 

The Horrors of Paris, 75 

The Fallen Angel, 75 

Felina de Chambure, ' 75 

Sketches in France, 75 

Isabel of Bavaria, 75 

Twin Lieutenants, 75 

Man with Five Wives, 75 


Annette; or, Lady of Pearls,... 75 

George; or. Isle of France, 50 

Madame De Chamblay 50 

The Black Tulip, 50 

The Corsican Brothers, 50 

The Count of Moret,... 50 

The Marriage Verdict, 50 

Buried Alive, 25 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 


Mysteries Court of London,. ...$1 00 

Bose Foster, 1 50 

Caroline of Brunswick, 1 00 

Venetia Trelawney, 1 00 

Lord Saxondale, 1 00 

Count Christoval, 1 00 

Rosa Lambert, 1 00 

Wallace, the Hero of Scotland,. 1 00 


Mary Price, 

Eustace Quentin,... 

Joseph Wilmot...... 

Banker’s Daughter, 

Kenneth, 

The Rye-House Piet, 1 

The Necromancer, 1 

The Gipsy Chief, 1 


SI 

1 

1 

1 

1 


The Mysteries of the Court of Naples, full of Illustrations 1 

Robert Bruce, the Hero-King of Scotland, full of Illustrations, ] 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 

00 


Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots,.. 75 

The Opera Dancer, 75 

Child of Waterloo, 75 

Isabella Vincent, 75 

Vivian Bertram, 75 

Countess of Lascelles, 75 

Duke of Marchmor.t, v 75 

Massacre of Glencoe, .* 75 

Loves of the Harem, 75 

The Soldier’s Wife, 75 


Ellen Percy,.. 75 

Agnes Evelyn, 75 

Pickwick Abroad, 75 

Parricide, 75 

Discarded Queen, 75 

Life in Paris,. 50 

The Countess and the Page,.... 50 

Edgar Montrose, 50 

The Ruined Gamester, 50 

Clifford and the Actress, 50 


May Middleton, 75 

Ciprina ; or, the Mysteries and Secrets of a Picture Gallery, 50 

MISS PARDOE’S POPULAR WORKS. 


The Rival Beauties, 

Romance of the Harem,. 


i j 


Confessions ofa PrettyWoman, 75 

The Wife’s Trials, ,.... 75 

The Jealous Wife, 50 

The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00. 

The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50; or in cloth, $1 75 

The Earl’s Secret. One volume, paper, $1.50 ; or in cloth, 1 75 


SgsU 0 Above books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 13 


CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS. 

Charles O’Malley, 75 

II :rry Lorrequer, 75 

J ick Hinton, 75 

Tom Burke of Ours, 75 

Knight of Gwynne, .. 75 

Above are in paper cover, or a fine edition is in cloth at $2.00 each. 

A Bent in a Cloud, 50 | St. Patrick’s Eve, 

Ten Thousand a Year, in one volume, paper cover, $1.50; or in cloth, 2 


Arthur O’Leary, 75 

Con Cregan, 75 

DavenportDunn, 75 

Horace Templeton, 75 

Kate O’Donoghue, 75 


50 

00 


The Diary of a Medical Student, by author “ Ten Thousand a Year, 

MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BEST BOOKS. 


75 

The Master of Greylands,.... 

...$1 50 

The Shadow of Ashlydyat,.... 


50 

Within the Maze, 

... 1 50 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir, 

. 1 

50 

Dene Hollow, 

... 1 50 

Oswald Cray, 


50 

Bessy Rane 

... 1 50 

Mildred Arkell, 


50 

George Canterbury’s Will,..., 

... 1 50 

The Red Court Farm, 

. 1 

50 

Verner’s Pride, 

... 1 50 

Els tor’s Folly, 

. 1 

50 

The Channings, 

... 1 50 

Saint Martin’s Eve, 

. 1 

50 

Roland Yorke. A Sequel to 

“ The Channings,” 

. 1 

50 

Lord Oakburn’s Daughters ; or, The 
The Castle’s Heir ; or, Lady Adelaide 

Earl’s Heirs, 

. 1 

50 

;’s Oath, 


50 


The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

The Mystery, 7 5 j A Life’s Secret, 

The Lost Bank Note, 50 j The Haunted Tower,. 

The Lost Will, 50 j The Runaway Match,. 

Orville College, 50 

Five Thousand a* Year, ; 25 

The Diamond Bracelet, 2,5 

Clara Lake’s Dream, 25 

The Nobleman’s Wife, 25 

Frances HildyarJ, 25 


Martyn Ware’s Temptations,.. 

The Dean of Denham, 

Foggy Night at Offord, 

William Allair 

A Light and a Dark Christmas, 
The Smuggler’s Ghost, 


EUGENE SUE’S GREAT WORKS. 


The Wandering Jew, $1 50 

The Mysteries of Paris, 1 50 

Martin, the Foundling, 1 50 

Above are in cloth at $2.00 each. 


First Love 

Woman’s Love, 

Fermtle Bluebeard, 

Man -of- War’s- Man, 


Life and Adventures of Raoul de Surville. A Tale of the Empire,... 

CHARLES J. PETERSON’S WORKS. 

The Old Stone Mansion,... ......$1 50 1 Kate Aylesford, 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

Cruising in the Last War, 75 1 Grace Dudley; or, Arnold at 

Valley Farm, 25 1 Saratoga,., 

WILLIAM H. MAXWELL’S WORKS. 

Wild Sports of the West, 75 I Brian O’Lynn, 

Stories of Waterloo, 75 I Life of Grace O’Malley, — 

MISS BRADDON’S WORKS. 

Aurora Floyd, 75 I The Lawyer’s Secret, 

Aurora Floyd, cloth 1 00 | For Better, For Worse, 


50 

50 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 


50, 

50 

50 

50 

25 


$1 50 


50 


75 

50 


25 

75 


I®* Above books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


14 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


HUMOROUS AMERICAN WORKS. 


Beautifully Illustrated 


Major tones’ Courtship, 75 

Major Jones’ Travels, 75 

Simon Suggs’ Adventures and 

Travels, 75 

Major Jones’ Chronicles of 

Pineville, 75 

Polly Peablossom’s Wedding,.. 75 

Mysteries of the Backwoods,... 75 

Widow Rugby’s Husband, 75 

Big Bear of Arkansas 75 

Western Scenes; or, Life on 

the Prairie, 75 

Streaks of Squatter Life, 75 

Pickings from the Picayune,... 75 

Stray Subjects, Arrested and 

Bound Over, 75 

Louisiana Swamp Doctor, 75 

Charcoal Sketches, 75 

Misfortunes of Peter Faber,.... 75 

Yankee among the Mermaitls,.. 75 

New Orleans Sketch Book, 75 


by Felix 0. C. Barley. 

Drama in Pokerville, 

The Quorndon Hounds, 

My Shooting Box, 

Warwick Woodlands, 

The Deer Stalkers, 

Peter Ploddy, 

Adventures of Captain Farrago, 
Major O’Regan’s Adventures,.. 
Sol. Smith’s Theatrical Appren- 
ticeship, 

Sol. Smith’s Theatrical Jour- 
ney-Work, 

The Quarter Racein Kentucky, 

Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag, 

Percival Mayberry’s Adven- 
tures and Travels, 

Sam Slick’s Yankee Yarns aud 

Yankee Letters, 

Adventures of Fudge Fumble,. 

American Joe Miller, 

Following the Drum, 


75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

50 

50 


FRANK FAIRLEGH’S WORKS. 

Frank Fairlegh, 75 I Harry Racket Scapegrace, 75 

Lewis Arundel, 75 I Tom Racquet, 75 

Finer editions of the above are also issued in cloth, at $1.75 each. 

Harry Coverdale’s Courtship, 1 50 | Lprrimer Littlegood, 1 50 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price SI. 75 each. 

The Colville Family. By author of “ Frank Fairlegh,” 50 


WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH’S WORKS. 

L'fo of Jack Sheppard, 50 Life of Dick Turpin,. 

Life of Guv Fawkes, 75 

Court of the Stuarts, 75 

Windsor Castle, 75 

The Star Chamber, 75 

Oi l St. Paul’s, 75 

Court of Queen Anne, 50 


Life of Davy Crockett 

Life of Grace O’Malley, 

Desperadoes of the NewWorld, 

Life of Henry Thomas 

Life of Ninon De L’Enclos,..., 


50 

50 

50 

50 

25 

25 


Life of Arthur Spring 25 

The Tower of London, with 93 illustrations, paper cover, 1.50, cloth, 2 50 

The Miser’s Daughter, paper cover, 1.00, . or in cloth, 1 75 

Lives of Jack Sheppard and Guy Fawkes, in one volume, cloth, 1 75 

MISS ELLEN PICKERING’S WORKS. 


The Grumbler, 75 

Marrying for Money, 75 

P-ior Cousin, 50 


Kate Walsingham, 50 

Orphan Niece, 50 

Who Shall be Heir? 38 


The Squire, 38 | Ellen Wareham, 38 | Nan Darrel, 38 


SAMUEL WARREN’S BEST BOOKS. 

Ten Thousand a Year, paper, ..$1 50 i The Diary of a Medical Stu- 
Ten Thousand a Year, cloth,... 2 00 | dent,.. 75 


3^“* Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa, 


The Lost Bride, 


The Two Brides, 


Love in a Cottage, 


Love in High Life, 


Year after Marriage, 


The Lady at Home, 


Cecelia Howard, 


Orphan Children, 


Debtor's Daughter, 


Mary Moreton, 


Six Nights with the Washingtonian: 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 15 
T. S. ARTHUR’S HOUSEHOLD NOVELS. 

The Divorced Wife, 50 

Pride and Prudence, 50 

Agnes; or, the Possessed, 60 

Lucy Sandford, 50 

The Banker’s Wife, 50 

The Two Merchants, 50 

Trial and Triumph, 50 

The Iron Kule, 50 

Insubordination; or, the Shoe- 
maker’s Daughters, 60 

ignis wiiu iue vvasningiomans ; and other Temperance Tales. 

By T. S. Arthur. With original Illustrations, by George Cruik- 
shank. One large octavo volume, bound in beveled boards, price. $3 SO 
Lizzy Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. Cloth $1.75; or paper* L50 

MRS. GREY’S CELEBRATED HOVELS. 

Cousin Harry, $1 60 | The Little Beautv $1 60 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

The Baronet’s Daughters, 50 

Young Prim a Donna, 50 

Hyacinthe, 25 

Alice Seymour 25 

Mary Sea ham 75 

Passion and Principle, 75 

The Flirt, 75 

Good Society, 75 

Lion-Hearted, 75 

G. P. S. JAMES’S BEST BOOKS. 

Lori Montague’s Page, $1 60 1 The Cavalier, $1 50 

The above aro each in paper eowr, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 

Th<\ Man in Black 75 j Arrah Neil, 75 

CAPTAIN MARRYATT’S WORKS. 

Ja* ob Faithful 50 I Newton Forster, . 50 

Japhetin Search of a Father,.. 50 | King’s Own 50 

Phantom Ship 50 j Pirate and Three Cutters, 60 

Midshipman Easy 50 j Peter Simple, 50 

Pacha of Many Tales,.... r 50 j Pireival Keene, 50 

Frank Mildrnay, Naval Officer, 50 | Poo” Jack... 50 

Snarleyow, 60 1 Sea King 50 

REVOLUTIONARY TALES. 


A Marriage in High Life, 

.. 50 

Gipsy’s Daughter 


Old Dower House, 


Belle of the Family, 


Duke andyCousin, 


The Little Wife, 


Lena Cameron 


Sybil Lennnrd 


Manoeuvring Mother 

50 


The Brigand 50 

Ralph Runnion, 50 

Seven Brothers of Wyoming,.. 50 

The Rebel Bride 50 

The Flying Artillerist, 50 

Wau-nan-goe, 50 

J. F 

The Usurer’s Victim ; 

Thomas Balscombe 


Old Put : or. Days of 1776,. 

Legends of Mexico 

Grace Dudley, 

The Guerilla. Chief. 

The Quaker Soldier, paper,, 
do. do. cloth,. 


SMITH’S WORKS. 

nr, I Adelaide Waldegrnve: or, the 
75 I Trials of a Governess, 


75 


Above books will bo sent, postage paid, on Receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


13 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


GEORGE LIPPARD’S GREAT BOOKS. 


The Quaker City, $J 

50 

The Empire City, 

. 75 

Paul Ardunheim, 1 

50 

Memoirs of a Preacher, 

. 75 

Blanche of Brandy wine, 1 

50 

The Nazarene, 

. 75 

Washington and his Generals; 


Washington and his Men, 

. 75 

or, Legends of the American 
Revolution, 1 

• 

Legends of Mexico, 

. 50 

50 

The Entranced, 

. 25 

Mysteries of Florence, 1 

Above in cloth at $2.00 each. 

00 

The Robbers, 

. 25 


The Bank Director’s Son, 

. 25 

EXCITING 

SEA TALES. 


Adventures of Ben Brace, 

75 

Gallant Tom, 

50 

Jack Adams, the Mutineer,.... 

75 

Harry Helm, 

. 50 

Jack Ariel’s Adventures, 

75 

Harry Tempest, 

. 50 

Petrel ; or, Life on the Ocean,. 

75 

Rebel and Rover, 

. 50 

Life of Paul Periwinkle, 

75 

Man-of- W ar’s-Man 

. 50 

Life of Tom Bowling, 

75 

Dark Shades of City Life, 

. 25 

Percy Effingham, 

75 

The Rats of the Seine, 

25 

Cruising in the Last War, 

75 

Charles Ransford, 

. 25 

Red King, 

50 

The Iron Cross, 

25 

The Corsair 

50 

The River Pirates, .... 

. 25 

The Doomed Ship, 

50 

The Pirate’s Son, 

. 25 

The Three Pirates, 

The Flying Dutchman, 

50 

Jacob Faithful, 

50 

50 

Phantom Ship, 

. 50 

The Flying Yankee, 

50 

Midshipman Easy, 

. 50 

The Yankee Middy, 

50 

Pacha of Many Tales, 

. 50 

Th? Gold Seekers, 

50 

Naval Officer, 

50 

The King’s Cruisers, 

50 

Snarleyow, 

50 

Life of Alexander Tardy, 

50 

Newton Forster, 

50 

Red Wing, 

50 

King’s Own, 

50 

Yankee Jack, 

50 

Japhet, 

50 

Yankees in Japan, 

50 

Pirate and Three Cutters, 

50 

Morgan, the Buccaneer, 

50 

Peter Simple, 

50 

Jaak Junk, 

50 

Percival Keene, 

50 

Danis, the Pirate, 

50 

Poor Jack, 

50 

VaJdez, the Pirate, 

50 

Sea King, 

50 


MILITARY NOVELS. BY BEST AUTHORS. 

With Illuminated Military Covers, in five Colors. 


Charles O’Malley, 

Jack Hinton, the Guardsman, 

75 

75 

The Three Guardsmen, 

Twenty Years After 


75 

75 

The Knight of Gwynne, 

75 

Bragelonne, Son of Atlios, 


75 

Harry Lorrequer, 

Tom Burke of Ours, 

75 

Tom Bowling’s Adventures,... 


75 

75 

Life of Robert Bruce, 


75 

Arthur O’Leary, 

75 

The Gipsy Chief, 


75 

Con Cretan, 

75 

Massacre of Glencoe, 


75 

Kate O’Donoghue, 

75 

Life of Guy Fawkes, 


75 

Horace Templeton, 

75 

Child of Waterloo, 


75 

Davenport Dunn, .. .. 

75 

Adventures of Ben Brace, 


75 

Jack Adams’ Adventures, 

75 

Life of Jack Ariel, 


75 

Valentine Vox, 

75 

Forty-five Guardsmen, 

Wallace, the Hero of Scotland, 

1 

00 

Twin Lieutenants, 

75 

1 

00 

Stories of Waterloo, 

The Soldier’s Wife, 

75 

75 

Following the Drum, 

The Conscript, a Tale of War. 


50 

Guerilla Chief, 

75 

By Alexander Dumas, 

1 

50 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 17 


HARRY COCK 

Valentine Vox, Ventriloquist,.. 75 

Valentine Vox, cloth, 2 00 

Sylvester Sound, 75 

The Love Match, 75 

GUSTAVE AIM 

The Prairie Flower, 75 

The Indian Scout, 75 

The Trail Hunter, 75 

The Indian Chief, 75 

The Red Track, 75 

The White Scalper, 50 

The Freebooters, 50 

HENRY MORFORD’S 

Shoulder-Straps, $1 50 

The Coward, 1 50 

Above are each in paper cover, or 

LIVES OF NOTED I 

Life of John A. Murrel,.... 50 

Life of Joseph T. Hare, 50 

Life of Col. Monroe Edwards, 50 

Life of Jack Sheppard, 50 

Life of Jack Rann, 50 

Life of Dick Turpin, 50 

Life of Helen Jewett, 50 

Desperadoesof the New World, 50 

Mysteries of Now Orleans, 50 

The Robber’s Wife, 50 

Obi; or, Three Fingered Jack, 50 

Kit Clayton, 50 

Life of Tom Waters, 50 

Nat Blake, 50 

Bill Horton, 50 

Galloping Gus, 5i 

Life & Trial of Antoine Probst, 50 

Ned Hastings, 50 

Eveleen Wilson, 50 

Diary of a Pawnbroker, 50 

Silv.er and Pewter, 50 

Sweeney Todd 50 

Life of Grace O’Malley, 50 


CON’S WORKS. 

The Fatal Marriage, 75 

The Steward, 75 

Percy Effingham, 75 

The Prince, 75 

LRD’S WORKS. 

Trapper’s Daughter, 75 

The Tiger Slayer, 75 

The Gold Seekers, 75 

The Rebel Chief, 75 

The Border Rifles, 75 

Pirates of the Prairies, 75 

AMERICAN NOVELS. 

The Days of Shoddy. A His- 
tory of the late War, $1 50 

2 ach one is in cloth, price $ 1.75 each. 

[IGHWAYMEN, ETC. 

Life of Davy Crockett, 50 

Life of Sybil Grey, 50 

Life of Jonathan Wild, 25 

Life of Henr}' Thomas, 25 

Life of Arthur Spring, 25 

Life of Jack Ketc h, 25 

Life of Ninon Dc L’Euclos, 25 

Lives of the Felons, 25 

Life of Mrs. Whipple, 25 

Life of Biddy Woodhull, 25 

Life of Mother Brownrigg, 25 

Dick Parker, the Pirate, 25 

Life of Mary Bateman, 25 

Life of Captain Blood, 25 

Capt. Blood and the Beagles,.. 25 
Sixteen-Stringed Jack’s Fight 

for Life, 25 

Highwayman’s Avenger, 25 

Life of Raoul De Surville 25 

Life of Rody the Rover 25 

Life of Galloping Dick, 25 

Life of Guy Fawkes, 75 

Life and Adventures ofVidocq, 1 50 


LIEBIG’S WORKS ON CHEMISTRY. 

Agricultural Chemistry, 25 I Liebig’s celebrated Letters on 

Animal Chemistry, 25 I the Potato Disease, 25 

Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry, is also issued in one large 

octavo volume, bound in cloth. Price Two Dollars. 

MILITARY AND ARMY BOOKS. 

Ellsworth’s Zouave Drill 25 1 U. S. Light Infantry Drill, 25 

U. S. Government Infantry & The Soldier’s Companion, 25 

Riflo Tactics, 25 | The Soldier’s Guide,......,....., 25 


Above Books will bo sent, postage paid, on Receipt of Retail Priee, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


18 T. B. PETFRSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORKS AT 75 CENTS. BY BEST AUTHORS. 


TheBngami; or, ihe Demon ol the North, By Victor Hugo,.... 
Cyrilla ; or, The Mysterious Engagement. By the author of “ 

Initials.” Cloth, $1.75; or bound in paper cover, for 

The Red Indians of Newfoundland. Illustrated, 

Webster and Hayne’s Speeches in Reply to Colonel Foote, 

Roanoke; or, Where is Utopia? By C. H. Wiley. Illustrated,. 


The 


75 


The Banditti of the Prairie,.. 

Tom Racquet, 75 

Salathiel, by Croly, 75 

Corinne; or, Italy, 75 

Ned Musgrave 75 

Aristocracy, 75 

Popping the Question, 75 

Paul Periwinkle,./. 75 

The Inquisition in Spain, 75 

Elsie’s Married Life, 75 

Leyton Hall. By Mark Lemon, 75 


Flirtations in America. 

The Coquette, 

Thackeray’s Irish Sketch Book, 

Whitehall, 

The Beautiful Nun, 

Mysteries of Three Cities, 

Genevra. By Miss Fairfield,.. 
Crock of Gold. By Tupper,... 
Twins and Heart. By Tupper, 

New Hope ; or, the Rescue, 

Nothing to Say, 

Hans Breitmann’s Party. With other Ballads. By Charles G. Leland, 
Hans Breitmann In Church, with other Ballads. By C. G. Leland, 
Hans Breitmann about Town, with other Ballads. By C. G. Leland, 

Hans Breitmann as an Uhlan, and other New Ballads, 

Hans Breitmann In Europe with other New Ballads,., 

WORKS AT 50 CENTS. BY BEST AUTHORS. 


Love at First Sight 

Leah ; or the Forsaken, 

The Greatest Plague of Life,.. 

Clifford and the Actress, 

The Two Lovers, 

The Orphans and Caleb Field,. 

Moreton Hall, 

Bell Brandon, 

Sybil Grey, 

Female Life in New York, 

Agnes Grey, 

Diary of a Physician, 50 

The Emigrant Squire, 50 

The Monk, by Lewis, 

The Beautiful French Girl,... 

Father Clement, paper, 

do. do. cloth, 

Miser’s Heir, paper, 


do. 


do. cloth, 75 


Kate Kennedy, 

The Admiral’s Daughter, 

The American Joe Miller, 

Ella Stratford, 

Josephine, by Grace Aguilar,.. 

The Fortune Hunter, 

The Orphan Sisters, 

Abednego, the Money Lender,. 
Miriam Abroy, by D 'Israeli... 

Jenny Ambrose, 

Train’s Union Speeches, 

The Romish Confessional 

Victims of Amusements, 

Ladies’ Work Table Book, 

Life of Antoine Probst, 

Alieford, a Family History,.. . 
General Scott’s $5 Portrait,... 

Henry Clay’s $5 Portrait, 

Portrait of Schuyler Colfax,... 


The Woman in Red. A Companion to the “ Woman in Black,’ 

Twelve Months of Matrimony. By Emelie F. Carlen, 

Robert Oaklands ; or, the Outcast Orphan, 

Father Tom and the Pope, in cloth gilt, 75 cents, or paper,.. 


REV. CHARLES WADSWORTH’S SERMONS. 

America’s Mission, 25 I A Thanksgiving Sermon, 

Thankfulness and Character,.. 25 I Politics in Religion, 

Henry Ward Beecher on War and Emancipation, 

Rev. William T. Brantley’s Union Sermon, 


75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 


50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

1 00 

1 00 
50 
50 
60 
50 
50 


15 

12 

15 

15 


(HP* Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 19 


WORKS AT 25 CENTS. 


Aunt Margaret’s Trouble, 25 

The Grey Woman, 25 

The Deformed, 25 

Two Prima Donnas, 25 

The Mysterious Marriage, 25 

Jack Downing’s Letters, 25 

The Mysteries of a Convent,... 25 

Rose Warrington, 25 

The Iron Cross, 25 

Charles Ransford, 25 

The Mysteries of Bedlam, 25 

Madison’s Exposition of Odd Felloi 
The Iniquities and Barbarities Pract 


Comic Life of Billy Vidkins, with 32 


BY BEST AUTHORS. 


The Nobleman’s Daughter,... 25 

Ghost Stories. Illustrated,.... 25 

Ladies’ Science of Etiquette,... 25 

The Abbey of Innismoyle, 25 

Gliddon’s Ancient Egypt 25 

Philip in Search of a Wife, 25 

Rifle Shots, 25 

Rody the Rover, 25 

The Sower’s Reward, 25 

The Courtier, 25 

G. E. Train and the Fenians, .. 25 

r ship. Illustrated, 25 

ced at Rome, 25 

Illustrations, 25 


THE SHAKSPEARE NOVELS. 

Shakspeare and his Friends, ...$1 00 I The Secret Passion, $1 00 

The Youth of Shakspeare, 1 00 I 

Above three Books are also in one volume, cloth. Price Four Dollars. 


WAVERLEY NOVELS. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


Ivanhoe, 25 

Rob Roy, 25 

Guy Mannering, 25 

The Antiquary 25 

Old Mortality 25 

Heart of Mid Lothian, 25 

Bride of Lammermoor, 25 

Waverley, 25 

St. Ronan’s Well, 25 

Kenilworth, 25 

The Pirate, 25 

The Monastery,... 25 

The Abbot, 25 

The Fortunes of Nigel, 25 


Above edition is the cheapest in tin 
volumes, price 25 cents each, or Five 
A finer edition is also published of 
ty-six volumes, price Fifty cents eacl 


The Betrothed, 25 

Peveril of the Peak, 25 

Quentin Durward, 25 

Red Gauntlet, 25 

The Talisman, 25 

Woodstock, 25 

Highland Widow, etc., 25 

The Fair Maid of Perth, 25 

Anne of Geierstein,..., 25 

Count Robert of Paris, 25 

The Black Dwarf and Legend 

of Montrose,.... 25 

Castle Dangerous, and Sur- 
geon’s Daughter, 25 


i world, and is complete in twenty-six 
Dollars for the complete set. 
each of the above, complete in twen- 
i, or Ten Dollars for the complete set. 


Moredun. A Tale of 1210, 50 I Scott’s Poetical Works, 5 00 

Tales of a Grandfather, 25 I Life of Scott, cloth, 2 50 

“NEW NATIONAL EDITION” OF WAVERLEY NOVELS 


This edition of the Waverley Novels is contained in five large octavo vol- 
umes, with a portrait of Sir Walter Scott, making/owr thousand very large 
double columned pages, in good type, and handsomely printed on the finest 
of white paper, and bound in the strongest and most substantial manner. 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in five volumes, $15 00 

u “ Full sheep, Library style, 17 50 

“ “ Half calf, antique, or Half calf, gilt, 25 00 

The Complete Prose and Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, are also 
published in ten volumes, bound in half calf, for $60 00 


SIR E. L. BULWER’S NOVELS. 

The Roue, 50 I The Courtier, 25 

The Oxonians, 50 I Falkland, 25 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
byT. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


20 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


LANGUAGES WITHOUT A MASTER. 

German without a Master. In Six Easy Lessons, by A. H. Monteith, 40 

French without a Master, 40 I Italian without a Master, 40 

Spanish without a Master, 40 1 Latin without a Master, 40 

The above five works on the French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian 
Languages, whereby any one or all of these Languages can be learned by 
any one without a Teacher, with the aid of this book, by A. H. Monteith, 
is also published in finer style, in one volume, bound, price $2.00. 

UR. HOLLICK’S WORKS. 

Dr. Hollick’s great work on the Anatomy and Physiology of the 
Human Figure, with colored dissected plates of the Human Figure, $2 00 


Dr. Hollick’s Family Physician, a Pocket Guide for Everybody, 25 

USEFUL BOOKS FOR ALL. 

Lady's and Gentleman’s Science of Etiquette. By Count D’ Or say 

and Countess de Calabrelia, with their portraits, 50 

Lardner’s One Thousand and Ten Things Worth Knowing, 50 

Knowlson’s Complete Farrier and Horse Doctor, 25 

Knowlson’s Complete Cow and Cattle Doctor, 25 

The Complete Kitchen and Fruit Gardener, 25 

The Complete Florist and Flower Gardener, 25 

Arthur’s Receipts for Preserving Fruits, etc., 12 


LIVES OF GENERALS AND OTHER NOTED MEN. 


The Lives of U. S. Grant and Hon. Henry Wilson. This book is a 
complete History of the Lives of General Ulysses S. Grant, and of 
the Hon, Henry Wilson, from their Birth up to the present time. It 
contains life-like Portraits of General Ulysses S. Grant, and of the 
Hon. Henry Wilson, and other Illustrative Engravings. Price 

One Dollar in cloth, or in paper cover, 75 

Moore's Life of Hon. Schuyler Colfax. By Itev. A. Y. Moore, of 
South Bend. With a Fine Steel Portrait. One vol. cloth. Price 1 50 
The Lives of Grant and Colfax. With life-like portraits of each, and 

other engravings. Cloth, $1.00 ; or in paper cover, 75 

Illustrated Life, Speeches, Martyrdom and Funeral of President 

Abraham Lincoln. Cloth, $1.75; or in paper cover, 1 50 

The Impeachment and Trial of Andrew Johnson, cheap paper cover 


edition, price 50 cents, or a finer edition, bound in cloth, price. ...1 50 
Trirl of the Assassins and Conspirators for the murder of President 


Abraham Lincoln. Cloth, $1.50; or cheap edition in paper cover, 5k 
Li b, Battles, Reports, and Public Services of General George B. 

McClellan. Price in paper 50 cents, dr in cloth.-. 75 

Life and Services of General Sheridan. Cloth, $1. CO; or in paper,.. 75 
Life and Services of General George G. Meade, Hero of Gettysburg, 25 

Life and Services of General B. F. Butler, Hero of New Orleans, 25 

The Life and Speeches of Andrew Johnson. Cloth, $1.00; orin paper. 75 
Lives of Sevraour and Blair. Price 50 cents in paper, or in cloth,... 75 
Life of Archbishop Hughes, first Archbishop of New York, 25 

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN’S SPEECHES. 

Train’s Speeches. 2 vols., each 25 1 Downfall of England, 10 

Train's Speech to the Fenians, 25 I Slavery and Emancipation, 10 


4^* Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B .PETERSON & BROTHEES’ PUBLICATIONS. 21 


GOOD BOOKS FOR EVERYBODY. 

Life cf Bon Quixote and Sancho Panza, paper $1.00; or in cloth,. ...$1 75 

Whittfriars ; or, the Bays of Charles the Second, [.[[[ 1 00 

Prof. Julien’s Farewell Musical Album, 1 00 

Southern Life; or, Inside Views of Slavery, 1 00 

The Rich Men of Philadelphia. Income Tax List of Residents, '...l*.*. 1 00 
Childbirth. Its pains lessened and its perils obviated. Showing that 
the pains of childbirth may be mitigated, if not entirely prevented, 1 00 
Peterson's Complete Coin Book, containing fac-similes of all the 

Coirs in the World, with the U. S. Mint value of each coin, 1 00 

Political Lyrics. New Hampshire and Nebraska. Illustrated 12 


EXPOSITIONS OF SECRET ORDERS. ETC. 


Odd Fellowship Exposed, 

Sons ol Malta Exposed 

Life of Jtev. John N. Maflit,... 


13 Br. Berg’s Answer to Arch- 

13 bishop Hughes, 

13 Br. Berg on the Jesuits, 


13 

13 


CHRISTY & WHITE’S SONG BOOKS. 

Christy Jk Wood’s Song Book,. 10 Serenader’s Song Book, 10 

Melodeon Song Book, 10 Budworth’s Songs, 10 

Plantation Melodies 10 Christy and White’s Complete 

Ethiopian Song Book, 10 Ethiopian Melodies. Cloth, 1 00 


CURVED-POINT STEEL PENS. 

Magnum Bonum Pen. Price per dozen, 75 cents, per gross, $8.00 

These Pens are recommended to all, being preferred to the old-fashioned 
quill pen, for easy writing. Wo advise all to try them. 


Petersons’ Counterfeit Detector mi Bank Note List. 

Corrected by DREXEL & CO., the well-known Bankers. 

Monthly, per annum, $1.50 1 Single Numbers 15 Cents 

Semi-monthly, per annum, 3.00 1 To Agents, a hundred, net Cash,..-..... $ 10.00 

PETERSON’S BETECTOR is especially devoted to BANKING, 
STOCKS, TRABE, MONEY, etc., with a full list of COUNTERFEITS on 
all National Bank Notes and Currency. It contains the official list < f all 
the NATIONAL BANKS, and the names of all the STATE BANKS— 
with quotations of the general BISCOUNT on NOTES at the following 
cities: PTIILABELPHIA, NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, BALTIMORE, 
CHICAGO, PITTSBURG, ST. LOUIS, etc., and the Wholesale Prices 
Current. Rules for Banks and Bankers ; Rules to Biscover Counterfeit 
Money; U. S. Stamp Buties ; Stock Table up to date, with U. S., State, 
City and County Loans ; Par Value, Bid, Asked, and when Interest is 
paid of each and every Stock. With a complete List of all the Broken, 
an/I Worthless Banks and Bank Notes in the country, and is published on 
the 1st and 15th of every month. Every storekeeper and person engaged 
in business should subscribe to Petersons’ Betector. The price is, for 
the Monthly issue, $1.50 a year, or for tho Semi-M onthly issue, $3.00 a year. 

Parties by subscribing to PETERSONS’ BETECTOR, have a full list 
of all the Banks in the country, and therefore can do their own collecting. 

Canvassers wanted evervwhere to get subscribers to PETERSONS’ 
BETECTOR. Send for Canvasser’s Confidential Circular, containing in- 
structions. Large wages can be made, and steady employment given. 
Address all letters and orders to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chesthut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


BY AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE.” 



EW WORKS, 


IN 6 VOLUMES, AT -$1.?5 EACH ; OR $10.50 A SET. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 Chestnut Street, 
Philadelphia, Pa., have just published a complete and uniform edition 
of all the new and celebrated works written by Mrs. Catharine A. 
Warfield, the well-known and popular American writer. This edition 
is in duodecimo form, and is printed on the finest of white paper, 
and is complete in six volumes, and each volume is bound in the very 
best manner, in morocco cloth, with a. full gilt back , and is sold at the 
low price of $1.75 a volume, or' $10.50 for a full and complete set. 
Every Family, and every Library in this Country, should have in it 
a set of this beautiful edition of the complete works of this talented 
and gifted American Authoress, Mrs. Catharine A. Warfield. The fol- 
lowing is a list of 

MRS. C. A. WARFIELD S NEW WORKS. 

MONFORT HALL. 

MIRIAM’S MEMOIRS. 

SEA- AN.D SHORE. 

THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE. 

A DOUBLE WEDDING; or, HOW SHE WAS WON. 
HESTER HOWARD’S TEMPTATION. 


Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or 
$10.50 for a complete set of the six volumes , or copies of either one or 
more of the above books , or a complete set of them, 'trill be sent at once 
to any one, to any place, postage pre-pa id, or free of freight, on 
remitting their price in a ’ e'ter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

300 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


M EMMA B. E. I SOBTHWOBTK’S WOBIS. 


T. B. PETERS 01 V & BROTHERS , Philadelphia , have just pub- 
lished an entire new , complete and uniform edition of all of the cele- 
brated works written by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth, the popular 
American Female Authoress. This edition is in duodecimo form, is 
printed on the finest of ivhite paper, is complete in thirty-nine volumes, 
and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, with a full gilt back, and 
is sold at the low price of $1.75 a volume, or $68.25 for a full and 
complete set. Every Family, and every Library in this Country should 
have in it a complete set of this new and beautiful edition of the works 
of this talented American Authoress, Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth . 
The following are the names of the volumes : 


THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 
FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN HATER. 
HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “ Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or, Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse. 
THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “ Family Doom.” 
THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY ; or, The Bride of an Evening. 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE. 
ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 

VIVIA ; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 


THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, Children of the Isle. 
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 
THE TWO SISTERS ; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 


THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 
THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. 

THE LOST HEIRESS. 

HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 

THE SPECTRE LOVER. 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 
THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
RETRIBUTION. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one or all 
of the above books, will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-pa, id, 
or free of freight, on remitting price of the ones wanted, to the publishers, 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Irs. Caroline Lee Herbs Worn 


12 VOLUMES, AT $1.75 EACH', OR $21.00 A SET- 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, 
Philadelphia , have just published an entire new , complete , and uniform 
edition of all the celebrated Novels written by the popular American 
Novelist , Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz , in twelve large duodecimo volumes , 
They are printed on the finest paper , and bound in the most beautiful 
style , in Green Morocco cloth , with a new, full gilt bach, and sold at 
the low price of $1.75 each, or $21.00 for a full and complete set. 
Every Family and every Library in this country, should have in it a 
complete set of this new and beautiful edition of the works of Mrs . 
Caroline Lee Hentz, The following is a complete list of 

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 

LINDA ; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. With 
a complete Biography of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 

ROBERT GRAHAM. A Sequel to “Linda; or, The Young Pilot 
of the Belle Creole. ,, 

RENA ; or, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. 

MARCUS WARLAND; or, The Long Moss Spring. 

ERNEST LINWOOD ; or, The Inner Life of the Author. 

EOLINE; or, MAGNOLIA VALE; or, The Heiress of Glenmore. 
THE PLANTER’S NORTHERN BRIDE; or, Scenes in Mrs. Hentz’s 
Childhood. 

HELEN AND ARTHUR ; or, Miss Thusa’s Spinning-Wheel. 
COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, The Joys and Sorrows of 
American Life. „ 

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE ; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE LOST DAUGHTER; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE BANISHED SON ; and other Stories of the Heart. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or 
$21.00 for a complete set of the twelve volumes. Copies of either one 
of the above books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once to 
any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, or free of freight , on remit- 
ting their price in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


* The very best ladies’ magazine published.” — Seneca Falls (N. Y.) Courier. 


CHEAPEST AND BEST! 


PETERSON’S MAGAZINE 


POSTAGE PRE-PAID ON ALL SUBSCRIPTIONS. 


Every subscriber for 1876 will be presented with a superb , large-sized steel 
engraving of Trumbull's celebrated picture of “ The Signing of the Declaration of 
Independence .” This will be “ Peterson's ” Centennial GiftAfsAk 


“Peterson’s Magazine” contains, every year, 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 
colored Berlin patterns, 12 mammoth colored fashion plates, 24 pages of music, and 
900 wood cuts. 

Great improvements will be made in 1876. Among them will be a series of 
illustrated articles on the Great Exhibition at Philadelphia, which will alone be 
worth the subscription price. They will be appropriately called 

THE CENTENNIAL IN PEN AND PENCIL! 

The immense circulation of “Peterson” enables its proprietor to spend more 
money on embellishments, stories, &c., &o., than any other. It gives more for the 
money than any in the world. Its 

THRILLING TALES AND NOVELETTES 

Are the best published anywhere. All the most popular writers are employed to write 
originally for “ Peterson." In 1876, in addition to the usual quantity of short stories, 
FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT NOVELETTES will be given, by Mrs. Ann S. 
Stephens, Frank Lee Benedict, Mrs. F. H. Burnett, and others. 

Mammoth Colored Fashion Plates 

Ahead of all others. These plates ai'e engraved on steel, twice the usual size, and 
are unequaled for beauty. They will be superbly colored. Also, Household and 
other receipts; in short, everything interesting to ladies. 

N. B. — A s the publisher now pre-pays the postage to all mail subscribers, “ Peterson ” 
is cheaper than ever ; in fact is the cheapest in the world. 


TERMS (Always in Advance) $2.00 A YEAR. 

4®=* LIBERAL OFFERS FOR CLUBS.~©& 


2 Copies for $3.60 

3 k4 44 4.80 

4 Copies for $6.80 

7 44 44 11.00 

5 Copies for $8.50 

8 44 44 12.50 

12 44 44 18.00 


With a copy of the premium mezzotint (21 x 26) 
“ Christmas Morning,” a five dollar engraving, to 
the person getting up the Club. 

With an extra copy of the Magazine for 1876, as 
a premium, to the person getting up the Club. 

With both an extra copy of the Magazine for 1876, 
and the premium mezzotint, a five dollar engraving , 
to the person getting up the Club. 


Address, post-paid, 

CHARLES J. PETERSON, 

306 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa. 

Specimens sent gratis to those wishing to get up clubs. 


22 VOLUMES, AT $1.75 EACH; OR $38.50 A SET. 


/ 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, 
Philadelphia, Pa., have just published an entire new, complete, and 
uniform edition of all the works written by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens , 
the popular American Authoress. Th is edition is in duodecimo form , 
and is printed on the finest of white paper, and is complete in twenty - 
two volumes, and each volume is bound in the very best manner, in 
morocco cloth, with a full gilt back, and is sold at the low price of $1.75 
a volume , or $38.50 for a full and complete set. Every Family and 
every Library in this country, should have in it a complete set of this 
new and beautiful edition of the works of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens . The 
following are the names of the volumes : 


BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT. 


BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price. 
WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life. 

LORD HOPES CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One. 
THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to “Lord Hope’s Choice.” 
THE REIGNING BELLE. 

PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastile. 
A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them. 

THE CURSE OF GOLD ; or, The Bound Girl and Wife’s Trials. 
MABEL’S MISTAKE; or, The Lost Jewels. 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, Pet From the Poor House. 
MARRIED IN HASTE. 


THE REJECTED WIFE; or, The Ruling Passion. 
THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian. 

THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy’s Legacy. 

THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS. 


SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford. 

RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or, Married by Mista 
FASHION AND FAMINE. 




DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike. 
THE GOLD BRICK. 

MARY DERWENT. 


t Alike. ^ . 



figs** Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or 
$38.50 for a complete set of the twenty-two volumes. Copies of either one 
or more of the above books, or a complete set of them , will be sent at 
once to any one, to any place, postage pre-pa id, or free of freight, on 
r > remitting their price in a ' letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Stkeet, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Tfi uar K) » 




























rr o 'o . , * 

^ ^ 



$Ur*' 


^ ■» 

. * 

< 5 > ® t 

* 

' \ 

<> 




« i •» 


0 * ° “ # ’ ^° 

s v^*> % '° • 

> A*' ~ sliS *. ^ ,«> 




<<, A*2©y 

► .. je=^h '.! i - ^ 


£ 0^1 

• '> V ° W §^1 

* »j. *. " / ..^ 



x°-d 



> 

<*> 


* 

> ^ °x, : 

A* A° V * 

*o ^ S$ 3$ks , r *^t. A - A KJ? • A 
« -S' A „ Bjfkgs • <A » jA S? /k 0 ^ 

° <^ , v *wW* a v ^ : . 

' • • 5 Xr o^ -o . * 

* C° + ‘\!^L% O o A 4 ' .°°. 1 ° ’. '■** ,0 

A 0 <c .v 




o V 


' H O. 

■a? Xv 

<j> o '- 

IV ^ *•»-<> A' 

% * r *. O <V * • o 

«*> .V 



^ A 


o' 





O . * 





. "> V V 

«• ^ A **i 

♦“ «v’'^ Iwsf*' ^ 

. * «* ^ 

c> o° w *» <S> n V . <S> 


ok ;<v 

0 v\ * 



O ' 

O * . ft o p. ^ <?•» * 

*. % jp ,••»- *> 

• A ,/ -Wr ** 

r yf' V “ A\\^//A o *> 



